What a day. I found a job. Digital estate planning—two days in the office, three from home. That notary stamp paid the fuck off. More money, fewer hours, and I’m forced to leave the house—but only a couple days a week. Perfect. Let’s watch it fall through, shall we?
Metro is having trouble finding any record of my 2018 72-hour hold. Perhaps that’s because it wasn’t a legal hold. Who knows. It’s going to traumatize my ass, but maybe I need to be traumatized by it. I need to know what really happened and finally realize the last seven years of calling myself crazy were based on a falsehood told and perpetuated by the powers that be.
I won’t deny I told those cops to go fuck themselves—because the long and the short of it was, I did nothing wrong. I set my wedding album on fire on the grill and broke a very heavy framed wedding photo, both of which were my property.
Here’s the story.
I was outside setting the wedding album on fire when eight fucking cop cars came screaming down our street. Brian 2 was in the bedroom. The kids were on the couch. {LP} was asleep and {MM} was helping me sweep up the glass.
I went to the door and told the cops, “Fourth Amendment. I don’t allow police in my home. Get the fuck off my property.” One of them shoved his boot in the door. Whatever. He said they had a call about someone barricading themselves inside.
Now I’m furious, because I used to barricade myself from him—from Brian 2. I would push the dresser in front of the bedroom door, buying just enough time to lock myself in the bathroom closet before he came in and raped me. So many fights ended that way—me yelling at him about having to barricade the door. Physically barricade it with furniture. When the cop said “barricade,” I lost it. I know it didn’t make sense to them, but to me, it was everything.
Now they’ve got my wrist and they pull me outside. I go into, “Why am I being detained?” We go several rounds of that—it’s the only thing I’ll say. They ask my name, and I tell them, “Fuck you.”
The cop, thinking he’s clever, says, “Fuck is the first name and You is the last name?”
Not to be outdone, I say, “No, it’s Fuck You Motherfucker—but the Motherfucker is hyphenated.”
In very short order, I’m in handcuffs in the back of a cop car. Who would’ve thought? Again, I’ve done nothing wrong, and they still refuse to tell me why I’m being detained. They leave one cop to babysit me, and I spend the next thirty minutes giving an impromptu Black Lives Matter speech from the backseat. Handcuffed. I’ll forever be proud of that.
Captain Douchebag is talking to a sobbing, trembling Brian 2. Then he informs me I’m being placed on a 72-hour hold because I “threatened both him and myself with a gun.”
If you ever want to see my demeanor change, say something like that to me. It came out of nowhere. There was no gun in the house—I’d already tried to kill myself with it, and it was locked away at his mother’s place for safety.
My voice dropped, my face changed. I looked at the man and said, “That never happened. I don’t understand. But I didn’t do anything.” I was calm and clear. I get that I was being a bitch, but being a bitch doesn’t warrant a traumatic mental health hold.
I kept trying to tell them it was a mistake. He was lying. There was no gun. I asked if they’d even seen a gun. They hadn’t. The cop finally just says, “Well, I feel like arresting you.” Yeah—that’s not how that shit works.
I kept pleading, “Fine, but you can’t leave my children with him. He’s dangerous.” I begged them to take the kids somewhere safe. They didn’t listen. Then came the shots of sedatives.
It took six to eight cops and EMTs to take me down—five shots of something strong enough to put down an elephant. I fought to the bitter end.
I remember how stunning the sunrise was over the mountains as they held me down and I screamed, “PLEASE, HE’S LYING! SOMEONE HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!”
Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it?
In the hospital, I ran into one of my former students. They “lost” my clothing. There was a nonverbal woman who only trusted me—but she’d randomly strip down naked. And the worst part? This guy used to stand over my bed while I was asleep and masturbate.
Can you imagine? Surviving a horrific marriage only to wake up every morning to some homeless dude jizzing in your face.
I was covered in bruises and injection marks. My dad came to get my things. I couldn’t go back. I never wanted to go back.
Brian 2 had one more box of my stuff. I told my dad I didn’t care—just tell him to throw it away. I was living on a beanbag chair on {Z}’s floor. Brian 2 didn’t know where {Z} lived.
{Z} and I went out for cigarettes, and there it was—the box. Sitting in front of my car. I almost fainted. {Z} looked at me and said, “Ma, get inside. Now.”
What was in the box? The scoreboard and logbook of the sexual acts we had to record.
I called the police because he shouldn’t have been able to find me. They said, as police always do, there was nothing they could do. I argued that the community was gated, that it was trespassing. Still, nothing.
The next week, I went out on my first date with {D}.
Add comment
Comments