Tag Archives: rape

The Killer in Me: Part II

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One fateful, autumn night I ended up on one of my unintentional hell flights to the demon’s dwelling.  I was truly a tormented soul at the time.  My heart was aching so badly that I was absolutely desperate for somethinganything—to numb the pain.  I hated dancing, I hated my life, I had just been rejected by one of the greatest loves I would ever know, and I was drunk again

I wanted; no I needed just a few lines to get my head straight.  You see, when I did cocaine, it cleared my mind.  It helped me to give words to feelings that I could not label.  It sparked my creativity and I was quite simply, brilliant.  For the first couple of hours I was on top of the world.  We’ll talk about the opposite end of the spectrum another time.

So, in my raw, carnal desperation for the drug and the numbing properties it could offer my broken soul, I let something awful happen.

This fiend had been trying to have sex with with me for a couple of years but somehow I was always clever enough with my words to keep him off of me, while still keeping him intrigued with me just enough to supply my coke.  His product was pure and uncut.  As drug dealers go, he was near the top of the food chain.  I can’t imagine how much money I’d been snorting up my nose if I’d been paying for it.

Well let me tell you something, nothing except God’s grace is really free in this world.  You always have to pay the price sometime or another.  As for me and my coveted connection, my luck had run out.  He wasn’t falling for any of my bullshit anymore.

I was so messed up that night.  I was in agonizing pain.  I remember him becoming increasingly aggressive with me.  He took me in his garage and he saw to it that I paid for every last bit of cocaine that he ever gifted me with.

I had somehow made myself belief he was actually my friend.  And on that night I needed a friend but there wasn’t a friend in sight.  You him…and me.

He was sober.  I was not.  His moves were calculated and intentional.  I was being carried by the wind.  He was inherently evil.  I was inherently pure, despite the dancing, the drinking, and the drugs.  I could have never harmed a soul.  He was the personification of evil…and he meant to do harm to me.

I don’t want to recount the details of what happened in that garage that night.  All I can tell you is that it was in no way consensual.  It was a lucid nightmare.  I wish I could forget it all, but the memory has been forcefully branded in to the tapestry of my soul.  I still feel dirty as hell when I think about it.

My precious Jeremiah was just 4 at the time.  What kind of person had I become?  I wanted to die, but the love that I had for my son kept me bound to life, so even death couldn’t soothe me. 

To make a very long story short, some weeks later I ended up needing a pregnancy test.  That test, and the many other tests I took in desperation after that proved to be positive.

I have always been against abortion.  Jeremiah was the only pregnancy that I had ever had.  In 1996, when I was preparing to take my first pregnancy test at the age of 23, something compelled me to get on my knees on my mother’s bathroom floor and pray that I was pregnant.  My life was so off course and my spirit inherently knew that having this child would save my life.  Without this child, I would have had nothing to live for.  I would have surely died.

This pregnancy was the stark opposite.  I literally felt as if the demon seed of hell had infected my body.  I had no emotion toward the innocent life that was growing inside of me.  I just wanted it out.

As luck would have it, I was broke at the time and didn’t even know what abortions cost.  I had friends I danced with who had had as many as 8 abortions.  A few of the girls I worked with unashamedly had made abortion their primary form of birth control.

And not surprisingly, there was a customer who frequented the club I had left in 1998, the one that burned down—he was an obstetrician/gynecologist who was known for performing all the girls’ abortions.

He was a kind, educated man who I had spent time with on a few occasions when he’d come in to the club for a cocktail.   And he was the only doctor who performed abortions that I even knew of.  I had never been anywhere near an abortion clinic.

A very concerned, dear friend loaned me the money and took me to the clinic on a Saturday morning.  It wasn’t at all what I was expecting.  It bore no resemblance to my doctor’s office which was full of life.  This place was full of death.  

Friend, hear me when I say that there were so many women there that I could not keep count of them all.  It was in fact so crowded that the office could barely accommodate all of the women who had come to terminate their pregnancies.  Everyone looked so afraid and hopeless.  A spirit of despair filled the air. There was even one young woman who was pleading with her boyfriend over the phone to come and help her.  It was obvious he had abandoned her.

Almost every single woman in that clinic was alone, except for one couple.  Where were all the damn men who had contributed to these pregnancies?  It was the story of my life!

The first part of the procedure involved a nurse violating me with some sort of phallic-shaped sonogram.  I didn’t know this then, but I think there was some sort of a law passed that they must show the mother her baby via sonogram before she makes the final decision to terminate her pregnancy.   

When I first saw Jeremiah’s heart beating on a sonogram in 1996 I was filled with joy and began to cry. 

I saw this child too.  I saw its heart beating.  I felt nothing.  On the monitor the embryo just looked black to me.  I saw this little, dark figure as the spawn of hell and felt no emotion whatsoever nor did anything in me prompt any kind of reservations about going through with the procedure.  No maternal instinct kicked in.  All I wanted was for his seed to be out of me.  I felt like the demon who had victimized me had now taken up residence in the most sacred part of my body.  I wanted it out.

After watching an informational video and undergoing the sonogram I was literally herded to a hall where 10 other women were lined up waiting for their abortions.  This is where I was medicated; my friend paid extra for the sedation.

The last thing I remember was lying down on the examination table, putting my feet in the stirrups.  From what I remember of the doctor, he was harried due of the high volume of patients who were waiting—there were several doctor’s performing abortions in close quarters of one another—but he seemed quite nonchalant as he carried out his daily routine. 

People who work on assembly lines form routines at work.  Their bodies are so adept at doing a repetitive task that they become almost automated in a sense.  This man was not working on an assembly line though, he was killing babies.  He seemed to have his routine down so well that I suspect he may have been able to do it with his eyes closed.

I wonder how many tiny souls left that wretched clinic on that Saturday, October 7, 2000.  I wonder how many babies were called right back to to the Maker, who had just recently created them and released them, in order that they would fulfill their own unique destinies, carrying out His plans and His purpose for their lives.

I know God chose us each individually before the beginning of time.  I know that He has a plan and a purpose for each one of us.  And I know that He intricately knit us together in our mother’s wombs.  He even knows the exact number of hairs on our heads.  I wonder how His heart breaks each time the lives of one of His precious babies are violently taken—at the hands of their Mommy’s, no less.

A mother’s love is an awe-inspiring force.  I would personally give my life to save Jeremiah or Jonah in the blink of an eye.  People can hurt me all day and all night long.  However, if anyone should be foolish enough to bring harm against one of my children they had better prepare for a battle to the death.  If you want to evoke rage in me, just hurt one of my babies…  You may walk over to me, but (if you’re lucky) you’re limpin’ back.  And that’s if I let you live and don’t physically scratch your eyes out.

Now riddle me this, friend, “Why did my maternal instincts fail to show up and protect the life of my unborn child?  Why didn’t I fight for my innocent baby?”

I am ashamed to say that until recently I have rarely felt an ounce of remorse for what I did.  And I have never cried a tear for my child.  I wish I could tell you that the opposite were true, but I can’t.  I know God will continue to work on my heart.

Please don’t think that I escaped unscathed though.  Conversely, poetic justice was duly served.  You see if I would have carried that baby—who I believe with all my heart was a girl—to term, she would have been born a week or two before my mother killed herself.

I’m not saying, nor do I believe that God punished me for having an abortion, but the fact of the matter is there is no way in the world that my mother would have left me with a newborn baby.  You may think that I can’t make this statement with certainly, but I know what I know.  I also know that my mom has a grandbaby in Heaven.  I praise Almighty God for that and pray that my mother will hold my daughter in her loving arms until we can be together forever.

-Ava

The Killer in Me: Part I

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The year 2000 was no doubt the darkest year of my entire existence.  Mind you, it wasn’t until 2001-2002 that my family would begin dropping like flies; I lost 9 of them in all during this dreadful time.

Misery consumed me at this point in my life and I was as far gone as I’d ever been.  You see, I had stop stripping in 1998.  When I fled the industry and an abusive relationship with Jeremiah’s father I promised God that, if He’d rescue me from the lonely, vile pit I had willfully dwelled in for so long, that I would never, ever go back.  Now, if you take anything with you tonight, take with you this simple piece of advice… “NEVER break a promise to God.”  Believe you me, He’s a God of love and a God of Grace, but He will go all Old Testament on your ass if you push Him far enough.  I did.

On all I hold sacred, I swear that it was the purest of intentions that I bid farewell to my days as a topless dancer.  This was significant because, since I was very young this industry was the only professional life I had ever really known.   Shortly after leaving the club, I took a job with the airlines making $5.25 per hour as my initial wage, which paled in comparison to the ridiculous amounts cash money I made in the club. 

If my life weren’t changing rapidly enough, I also escaped a 4-year, sadistically abusive relationship with Jeremiah’s father.  Jeremiah was just two-years old when I discovered that he was playing with a meth-infested, glass pipe; he was using it like a whistle.  That was the crescendo of the madness for me.  It took that much for me to finally leave him.

Urgently, with the help of my mother and friends, the baby and I fled from our large, two-story home in just one day; all while Jeremiah’s father was at work.  We moved into an older, efficiency apartment near my mother’s house and were in hiding  from my ex for well over six months.  The photo below is the exact floorplan of the 488 square foot apartment we moved into.  It wasn’t anything like the luxury properties I had resided in before but it was our haven; we were finally safe.

I asked God to save me from a life of excruciating, ravishing pain, sin, and sorrow.  He did.  I even prayed fervently that He would burn down the club that I had worked in for 6 years.  A week later He did!  An online news article I dug up had this to say:

“On the morning of Thursday, November 18th, the fire at Caligula was so fierce that it took firefighters most of the day to control it.  The business is currently closed and the property has been fenced until the debris can be removed.”

God moved Heaven and Earth to save, not just my pitiful, sin-infested life, but the life of my precious child as well.  So imagine his dismay when I returned to dancing in 2000.  It would prove to be one of the deadliest decisions I ever made.

The irony of me leaving my job at the airlines that year to begin dancing again full-time is that I almost never went to work!  I would spend weeks… sometimes as long as an entire month planning to go to work, but I could never seem to make myself just go.  The thought of it made me violently sick and brought forth extreme fear and panic attacks. 

And don’t forget, I asked God to let the club that I had essentially grown up in and was so comfortable in the burn to the ground!  I had to find a new place to work, I was getting older,  I didn’t have my old friends to work with or my former clientele to support me.  I quickly became a little fish in a really big pond; something I wasn’t at all accustomed to.  Fear consumed me.

What’s worse is that my cocaine addiction escalated to such an extreme that it completely overtook me.  I overdosed more times that I can recall and can say with great certainty that I should have died on several occasions.  I’ve had to call 911 on myself more than once because I was terrified that my heart might explode.

I would always promise myself that I wasn’t going to do coke when I got to work, but time after time I always ended up doing shots and downing Grey Goose Cosmos to loosen myself up and dull the pervasive anxiety of having to take my clothes off for the swarms of debaucherous men I would have to pretend to adore all night. 

Wouldn’t you know that each and every time my buzz would kick in that I’d swiftly leave the club?  It was as if I had no control over my own body.  It was as if my car were on auto-pilot.  I drove wild and recklessly as if a tenacious, demonic force had placed blinders on my spiritual eyes, beckoning me down the same deadly path that led straight to the door of the one person who was always willing to hook me up and get me high.

The man who had been giving me the cocaine for so many years may very well have been one of the 7 Princes of Hell.  Even now, thoughts of this filthy creature make me want to vomit.  I don’t think I’ve ever hated a person, but I hate this man.  To say that this man took advantage of my visibly fragile state would be the understatement of the century.

There is so much I could say about this vile reprobate, but obviously, almost 13 years later, it would appeart that I am not fully healed from what he did to me.  I guess scars don’t hurt, right?

All I can tell you is that there came a night when my mind was clearly not my own.  That year I had dabbled with Wicca (long story), which essentially invited Satan and a few of his closest pals to have an all-out Mardi Gras in my life. 

Reflecting back now on who I was that year is like an out-of-body experience for me.  When I try to go back to that place to find healing and closure, it’s like I’m watching a movie starring some hopelessly lost,recklessly wild, out of control girl; but it damn sure isn’t meI don’t know who I was then.  I swear my soul was somewhere else.

As you may have noticed, this entry is long.  There’s something I want to say for the first time in my life, but fear that I may be dancing around the subject a bit.  It’s bitterly painful to admit.  It’s a secret that I have buried so deep that I honestly don’t even give any attention to the matter anymore.  I guess I’m living my life, pretending that what happened, simply did not happen.  But Oh God, it did happen…

(Story continues on “The Killer in Me: Part II”)