Chapter Four: Horror Show

 

 

Jesse lived in a little house in Swansea with a couple of other guys.

 

“Staging a horror show, eh?” asked one of them sympathetically.  “Far out.” He had heard about my plan and Jesse’s complicity.  None of them knew why I was leaving, but they all went by the Freak Code of Conduct:  just be cool and take care of each other, that’s all.  Don’t ask questions.  If somebody wants you to know something they’ll tell you up front.  Otherwise, don’t go poking into other people’s business.

 

That night we all slept in Jesse’s van, crammed together on the floor.  I cried all night.  Jesse tried and tried to get me to talk to him, to tell him all about it, but I wouldn’t.  I wanted him to take me like the other boy had, just for comfort, and told him so in broken language, but he recoiled from that in horror, so I just cried in his arms all night until it came time for me to go into the airport and get on the 6 o’clock plane from Boston to San Francisco.

 

When the time came, I marched right into the airport and found my boarding area.  I gave the gate attendant my ticket and she tore off the front copy and gave me the rest.

 

“This flight is overbooked,” she told me.  “Would you mind being seated in First Class instead of Coach?  It’s the only seat we have open.  Otherwise you’ll have to stand by for the next flight.”

 

Somehow, being seated in First Class did not sound like a bad deal.  I had heard about flying standby, and I knew that could be a bummer.  So I volunteered to go First Class, what the heck.  The gate attendant crossed something out on my ticket and wrote something in instead.

 

I climbed the steps up to the airplane and handed my ticket to the stewardess, who was dressed in a smart white and blue uniform with a miniskirt and high heels.  She looked maybe eighteen to me.  She smiled at me and ushered me to the left, to the very front of the plane.  I had the seat in the first row on the right hand side just behind the cockpit.  I could see the pilot but not the copilot because there was a partition right in front of me.  This turned out to be the bathroom, which was very convenient.

 

Soon the plane started up its engine.  I had been on a plane once before, in fact it had been almost exactly a year before, when my dad decided it was time for a family vacation.  We had been on family vacations when I was a young child, but those were always by car.  And they always involved traveling to visit relatives, which was usually pleasant especially when it was the ones who lived in Florida and took me to see alligators and parrots.

 

So when my dad decided that we should go to an island in the Caribbean, it was an exciting idea, or would have been if it were not for the fact that I would be cooped up with my mother and her inevitable temper tantrums.  But I was not given the choice whether or not to go, so I went.  We flew on a jet from Boston to San Juan, Puerto Rico, where I saw the biggest cockroach I have ever seen, before or since.  It was in the bathroom of the airport, in the stall where I was going pee.  I did not scream.

 

Then we took a propeller plane from San Juan to the island, and that plane seemed to barely skim the Caribbean waves.  You could see the white caps on the startlingly blue water.  I thought I saw sharks.

 

The stewardess brought us Mateus Rose wine, and I forgot about sharks and everything.  I got good and tipsy and before I sobered up we were there. 

 

It turned out to be a desert island.  Very boring, nothing whatsoever to do or see.  You could look out over the ocean and see the neighboring island, which was a lush jungle.  I wanted to be on that one, but of course that was not possible.  So I just tagged around with my parents, because they would not let me go anywhere by myself.

 

They had rented a golf cart, and that was how we got around the island.  We went to the market in the only town and got soggy rolls and cold cuts.  It was disgusting. 

 

The beaches were beautiful.  They were pristine white sand with nobody on them.  We were staying in a nice bungalow right on the beach. 

 

About the third or fourth day we were there I broke out in a rash from head to toe and a fever.  My head ached something fierce.  My whole body itched like fire.  My father found out who the doctor was on the island, and he came to the house.

 

“Sun poisoning,” he pronounced.  What to do for it?  Benadryl is all, he said.  So my parents got me some Benadryl.  It didn’t do squat.  I was going berserk.

 

The person who owned the bungalow came to see how we were doing.  I was miserably sacked out in a hammock in the shade.  “I know something that will make you feel better,”  he proclaimed.  He mixed me a Planter’s Punch:  dark rum, light rum, and orange juice.

 

I spent the rest of the two-week vacation in that hammock, smashed on Benadryl and Planter’s Punches and wishing I was dead, or at least somewhere out of the sun.

 

Finally the day came when we could go home.  They packed me up and we puttered back over the Caribbean waves in the propeller plane,  This time I did not care about waves or sharks or anything, because I was still smashed on Benadryl and Planter’s Punch.

 

We ran into a small problem in San Juan when we went to board our flight back to Boston.  It had to do with my rash.  They sent me to the Health Department, where they declared me infectious, they didn’t know with what.  I had a big old scar on my left arm where I had had my smallpox vaccination, so they were pretty sure it wasn’t that.  Measles was the next thing on their list.  They wouldn’t take our word for it when we described how I nearly died of measles when I was eight, had a 106 degree temperature and had to stay in a darkened room for two weeks.  And that I had had German Measles twice, but they wouldn’t believe that either.

 

They drew my blood, and we had to stay in a rickety old hotel room with cockroaches almost as big as the one I had seen in the airport bathroom, until they got the results back that I did not have any infectious disease, which I could have told them and in fact had.

 

For years after that I broke out in the same horrible rash every time I went out in the sun in the summertime.  It definitely killed any aspirations of getting a tan.

 

The fall after that, when I was about turning sixteen, my mother got it into her head that the reason I was getting these rashes must be that I was taking birth control pills.  Never mind the fact that I was a virgin and in fact did not yet have a clear idea yet of how the sex act was done.  Once she got something into her head it was in there permanently.  Now in addition to the rest of her abusive vocabulary was “whore,” “slut,” and the like. 

 

What that did, really, was to pave the way to my eventual downfall.  What was the point of trying so hard to stay sexually pure, if I was going to be called these awful names anyway?  I did not go out and try to find someone to have sex with.  The only people I knew who “did it” were disgusting louts that I wouldn’t have anything to do with anyway.  But I told myself that if the right person came along, I would be open to the idea.

 

As it turned out, the right person did not come along.  The wrong person came along, and I was not a willing participant.  But it happened to me anyway, and there was no going back.  All there was, was this jet plane that I had boarded, and I was going to San Francisco, first class.  Far fucking out.

 

#A Runaway Life

teenage-runaway1  Writing my memoir is hard.  Really, really hard.  I’m working on a book proposal, which involves doing synopses of all of the chapters.  Well, I hadn’t really thought too much about chapters, so here I go making chapters, seeing where the scenes naturally divide themselves, start and end.  And they do, you know, the scenes of our lives just naturally divide themselves up:  now we are cooking, now we are eating, now we are making love.  And it all just flows.  There might be some awkward scenes, but that’s natural too.

Mainly, my jaw is dragging around on the floor that there are so many, so so many, scenes in my life. So many just trying to keep alive, trading some kind of commodity for some other, just to get a place to spend the night out of the elements, or a hamburger.  Jeez, most of them are pretty gritty.  Heh, she thinks cynically, maybe that’ll sell more copies.  Ugh.

Chapter 3: Samantha

Dina carefully stacked three apple boxes one atop the other.  Tilting her face toward the barn roof gutter, she could hear the “chirrr, chirrr” of the baby starlings in their nest.  The mother starling fluttered in with a fat worm in her beak; pandemonium broke out in the nest as the youngsters vied for succulent bites.

As the mother bird flew away on a mission for more worms, Dina grabbed her opportunity.  Perilously balancing a rickety apple picking ladder on the topmost box, she held her breath as she eased herself up the ladder to the barn eaves–and the nest.

Dina thought her heart would pound its way out of her chest as she cautiously reached in and gently scooped up one of the baby starlings.  She ignored both its furious pecks with its soft beak and the instant stream of bird lice that swarmed up her arm as she gingerly groped her way back down the ladder, dropping to the ground from the top of the third apple box.

Only then did she risk taking a look at her prisoner.

It was a “she,” Dina decided, whether it was or not.  She did not know how to tell the sex of birds.  But it did not matter, because it was a “she.”  And her name was Samantha.  She was just beautiful.  She had black and tawny speckles all over her, a beak and legs of bright yellow, and the inside of her throat was bright yellow too.  Dina knew this because Samantha was straining her neck toward Dina, beak as widely open as it could go, and chirring insistently.

“Oh my,” said Dina softly.  “Looks like you’re hungry.  What shall we feed you?  I don’t have any worms just now.”

So Dina took Samantha home and made her very comfortable in a shoebox lined with cotton wool.  She went downstairs and made her way into the kitchen.  She did not have to tiptoe because no one else was home.

In the fridge she found what she was looking for: a partially used can of dog food with a plastic lid on it.  Using an old butter knife she scooped some of the evil-smelling dog food into a tiny bowl (normally used for dipping sauces), found some toothpicks, and ran upstairs to her room under the eaves of the ancient house.

Samantha was still chirring away, more insistently than ever, mouth stretched wide open, eyes bugging out of her head.  Dina carefully gathered a small ball of dog food on the toothpick (she had previously learned by means of tragedy not to give too much at one time) and popped it into the little bird’s mouth.

The birdie gobbled it greedily and opened its mouth for more.  

“Just one more bite for now, little Samantha,” whispered Dina.  “We don’t want to overfeed you.”  The bird swallowed the bolus of food and screamed for more, but Dina put the lid of the shoebox on, already bored with plenty of air holes. “You take a nap now.  I’ll be back later with more food, just like your real mommy.”  Dina stashed the dog food under her book shelf and left in search of supplies.

Her first stop was the Portuguese chicken farm down the road, for some lice powder.  She hurried back with it and dusted the poor little bird well.  It coughed and spluttered, and there was an exodus as the lice jumped ship, and much slapping and squishing of bird lice for a good ten minutes until they were all gone.  This exhausted Samantha’s energy supplies and she required another feeding.

The next day was a school day.  Dina carefully slid the shoe box containing Samantha into her school bag, walked to the bus stop, and went to her seventh grade home room.  She hid her satchel under her seat.  Her seventh grade class changed classes every forty-five minutes, so she had about five minutes each time to rush to the bathroom and feed Samantha before she got hungry and started yelling for food.

By some miracle, she was able to pull this off for some weeks.  By some other miracle, she managed to hide Samantha from her mother, that is, until Samantha fledged and started fluttering around Dina’s room, pooping wherever she went.  There was a moment of truth, where Dina’s mother found the shoe box nest, and feathers everywhere, and bird poop everywhere, and there was yelling and tears.

But luckily Dina’s mom had a soft spot for animals, and agreed to allow Dina to keep Samantha as long as she cleaned up after her.  Dina was so relieved that she instantly agreed, even though cleaning was all the way at the end of her list of fun things to do.

So it was that Dina and Samantha were out in the open now, and could do things together and not always  have to keep secrets.  In fact, Dina’s mother agreed to feed Samantha while Dina was in school, so Dina wouldn’t have to risk getting in trouble.

Dina played the flute.  Samantha loved to hear Dina play.  In fact, she loved to sing along.  So it was that one day Samantha flew up and lit on the end of Dina’s flute, accompanying her with starling trills and twitters, and getting her toes caught in the keys.

The two of them also loved to take long walks in the woods together.  Samantha would perch on Dina’s shoulder (or head), and Dina would walk along the path in the woods behind the house.  Then, if Samantha saw something interesting to her, she would fly off to investigate.  Dina never got worried, because Samantha always came back, to perch once again on her hand or her head.

There were always cats around the house, either the ones that belonged to Dina’s mother or the ones that just lived at the farm.  And dogs too:  Dina’s yellow dog, and the big brown dog next door.  All of them seemed to know that Samantha was part of the family and not “fair game.”  Often when Dina wasn’t home, Samantha stayed in the screened-in porch, and she was always there waiting when Dina came home, and greeted her by lighting on her head and pulling on her hair, as if looking for lice!

Summer came, and it was time for Dina to make her annual pilgrimage to visit her cousins in New York.  She had done this since she was a young child, and it was a yearly ritual.  But this year was different.  Who would take care of Samantha?  She certainly could not go to New York!

Dina’s mother volunteered to care for Samantha in Dina’s absence.  Dina felt secure because her mother had taken care of the little starling when Dina was at school, and she knew what the bird ate, and her schedule.  So off she went to New York, feeling confident that everything would be fine.

She had a great time with her cousins in New York.  They had a lot more money than Dina’s parents.  They went to Broadway shows.  They went to Times Square, and Madison Square Garden where they saw the Rockettes.  They ate food from vendors on the street and got awfully sick, and then the next week they did it again and didn’t get sick.  They watched Howdy Doody on the gigantic color TV (Dina’s parents had a black-and-white TV, and it was tiny).

Soon it was time to go home.  Dina had been thinking about Samantha on and off, but had been distracted by all the fun things there were to do in New York, so when she spoke to her mother on the phone she never even asked about Samantha, and her mother never mentioned the little bird.

After a long bus ride Dina was home.  Her parents picked her up at the bus station.  It was about an hour’s drive from the bus station to home.  Now there was plenty of time to talk about what Dina had done in New York, what adventures she had had, and how much she had grown, and how becoming her new haircut looked.

They drove into the dirt lot that served as a driveway, and Dina jumped out.  She couldn’t wait to see Samantha.  She opened the screen door to the porch and looked around.  No Samantha.  She rushed upstairs to her room.  Samantha’s shoebox-nest was empty.  It looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time.  She tore apart her room, calling the starling’s name:  “Samantha!  Sam!  Where are you?”

At last she raced down the steep and narrow stairway that connected her attic bedroom to the rest of the house.  “Mom!  Mom!  I can’t find Samantha!” She panted.

“Oh, honey,” her mother said nonchalantly, drawing on a Marlboro, “Samantha flew away while you were gone.”

“Flew away?  What do you mean? Samantha would NEVER fly away.”

“Oh, I guess when she realized you weren’t here, she went to find her family.”

Twenty years later, Dina learned the truth.  Her mother had left Samantha in the screen-porch with one of the cats, and when she next looked, there was only a pile of black and yellow feathers where once her Samantha had lived and breathed.

Chapter 1: Earth Day 1970

Chapter 1:  Earth Day 1970

I met him in the burger joint where I worked.  It was my first job on my work permit as a 16 year old.  He admired my legs;  I was flattered.  He had a motorcycle and bad skin.

That day he had picked me up in his battered Ford.  My parents would never have let me go out with a boy on a motorcycle:  too dangerous.  But a car was OK in broad daylight.  And I was sixteen:  old enough to date.

He drove the old Ford on country roads that got smaller and smaller till we reached a big woods, some kind of a park.

We got out of the car and I though we were going to take a walk.  But there, parked near the edge of the woods, was his motorcycle.  I climbed on behind him and he kicked the motor to life, and turned its head onto a well-worn path in the forest.

I never would have believed someone could drive a motorcycle so fast on a dirt forest path.  I had to keep my eyes closed so I wouldn’t get sick from the trees whizzing by.  He leaned deep into the curves and I just hung on, comforted by the thought that if we ditched here, at this speed, I would probably be killed instantly and not suffer.

Suddenly the bike slowed and I opened my eyes.  He was stopping near a big tree.  He got off and grinned at me with his bad teeth.

“Wait here,” he said.  “I have a little surprise for you.”

He reached into a hollow in the tree and pulled out a small plastic bag.  In the bag was something dark green. “Panama Red,” he gloated, as he rolled a thin joint and lit up.

I had started smoking pot two years ago, and liked it a lot.  I was eager to try the fabled Panama Red.  We passed the joint back and forth until it was all used up.  He put the bag back in the tree and we got back on the bike and roared off.

Soon, after a few more terrifying twists and turns of the trail, we came to another big tree and stopped again.  “Acapulco Gold,” he announced.  And we smoked up another joint of that.

We made at least one more stop for his stashes of gourmet weed before our tour came to an end and we got back to the car.  By that time I was completely wasted.  I have no idea how I had managed to stay on the bike, and less idea how he managed to drive it in that condition.  I guess he was more used to it than I was.

In any case, I was in no condition to even ask where we were going in the car, and he just drove to his parents’ house where I had been once before.  He lived in the basement because, being twenty-something, he had to have his privacy.

I don’t remember walking into the basement.  He must have carried me in. The first thing I remember is that the basement floor was very hard.  The musty shag rug did nothing to soften the cold concrete underneath.

The man on top of me panted and grunted.  As my brain swam into consciousness his voice hissed in my ear, “Don’t make any noise and you won’t get hurt.” I scrunched my eyes closed as hard as I could and clamped my teeth together so as not to scream as his erection pounded and pounded, trying to break through my virgin door.

My hymen was very thick and the opening very small.  I had found that out at 14 when I tried using a tampon from the package marked “Junior Size.”  It went in OK but after it was used and swelled up with blood, it wouldn’t come out no matter how I tugged on the string.  I panicked.  I wriggled into different positions and finally managed to pull the thing out.  No more tampons for me, not for a long time.

When, after a lot of grunting on his part, he finally tore through me, the blinding pain crashed a scream through my clamped lips.

“Quiet!” he whispered hoarsely.  “My parents will hear.”  But by then I was floating on the ceiling.  My body lay limp underneath him, my breathing ragged, my hair damp with his sweat.

When he brought me home in the beat up Ford my parents were sitting on the porch, enjoying the spring afternoon.  I walked straight past them and up to my room, where I took off my blood-soaked spring coat and clothes, and threw them in a crumpled wad in the back of my closet.  I didn’t know if they had noticed my bloody clothes.  They never said anything.  Maybe they thought I had got my period and was embarrassed.

I bled for days, on and off.  Later, when I could bear to look with a mirror, I saw what had happened down there.  Instead of my hymen breaking, his erection had torn it away from the side of my opening.  My hymen was still attached to me, and I now had two openings:  one natural and one man-made.

Over the next month there would be more times with that guy.  We would get stoned and then, in his car on the back seat, he would grunt on top of me for a while. I felt nothing, nothing at all.  My soul was floating around somewhere else, distantly observing what was happening to me.

At a certain point he would always jump off me and go outside the car and, hunched over, do something frantically for a minute or so, then give a big sigh and zip his pants up.  Then he would take me home.

I don’t know why I kept seeing him, letting him do this to me. I felt like such trash.  It was as if I couldn’t resist him, now that he had broken me.

Introducing my new blog

I’m kind of excited to publicize my new blog, Dina Leah: story of a teenage runaway https://dinaleah.wordpress.com/

The reason I’m “kind of excited” is that I’ve committed to finally telling my story right out loud, in serial form.  This time I’m writing under a pseudonym, Dina Leah, for a number of reasons.  Mostly I don’t want to deal with fallout from my family.  Not that I care so much about hurting anyone’s feelings, because every time I went to them to try to tell them what happened, I met with stony silence and denial.  So if they were to read this and know that I’m writing the story of what happened to me, and they want to read it, so be it.  Maybe they’ll learn something they didn’t know before.

On the other hand, the mother that drove me out of her home is still alive, and still as narcissistic as ever, and might retaliate in some unpleasant way.  I guess the worst thing she could do is to throw me out again, which she has done many times.  That would result in my not getting to spend time with my ailing father, which would pain me greatly, as she well knows.  Or perhaps she would just choose to hammer me with ridicule and sarcasm, which would probably result in another trip to Canada for more rTMS treatments before I left permanently, with great sorrow and regret.

For even the subjects of abuse often love their abusers, and try to shelter them from harm.

Ah well.  This will all come out in my memoir, which will take form in the shape of https://dinaleah.wordpress.com/

Dina Leah: story of a teenage runaway.

I invite you to follow her blog.  Please be advised that it contains PTSD triggers galore.  I would love it if you would participate in the conversation.  Sharing and processing our traumas can help us heal.  Solidarity gives strength.  Hope to see you there.

Meet Dina Leah, Survivor of serial rape, homelessness, survival sex and PTSD

Remember when serial adventure stories were printed on the sides of breakfast cereal boxes?  I used to think they were called “cereal” stories.

This is my story, but it won’t fit on a cereal box so I will tell it here, in bits and pieces.

It’s the story of my life.  True, I am a grownup now, as much as child survivors of the horrors of the street can grow up.  Much of the time, I’m still down there in the gutter, duking it out with a life that I thought I chose, which turned out to be anything but the glamorous life of a California hippie in the 1970’s.

My story is not glamorous.  In fact, it’s horrifying.  It’s the story of a naive and innocent 16 year old girl who ran away from an abusive home in the year 1970, expecting to find love and light and flowers and incense.  What she found instead was a world of predators and perps, cold-hearted people, rain and snow and hunger and cold.

I want you to know the whole story.  My next post will begin at the beginning.  Let me warn you now: it is not pretty.  It is ugly and violent.  As much as I want to share my story with as many people as possible,if you have issues with PTSD triggers around sexual violence, I warn to to proceed with caution, or you might not want to read it at all.

Till next time,

Dina Leah