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hellotinywonder · 6 years

Text

o deset let později

Admit it. You wanted to read it in bad Czech. (I retro-translated some after the fact and it’s actually hilarious, “And then I leave her here and, of course, every year I remember and bang my fist all over the world for myself and all the other victims of violent men, then I put my fists down and come back to my life.”)

This is the crappy robot translation of THIS POST (”ten years later”)

Tohle mě pozdvihlo kolem hlavy, mám milého nového přítele, který moc mluví anglicky, a chtěla jsem mu vyprávět o tomto divném, strašlivém okamžiku svého života, který zásadně změnil, kdo jsem a jak Budu navždy komunikovat se světem (jak dobrým, tak špatným). Ale nevím, jak to. Takže to všechno píšu, což jsem nikdy neudělal. A pak ji nechám tady a samozřejmě jednou za rok si pamatuju a píchám pěstí po celém světě pro sebe a všechny ostatní oběti násilných mužů a pak si dám pěstí dolů a vrátím se k životu můj život. Je to ten čas roku, i když ...

Myslel jsem na to hodně. V noci je nepřístupný. Když někdo kráčí příliš rychle ke mně. Když někdo říká něco nevhodného online nebo osobně. Když je příliš mnoho krabiček, těch vzorů násilí, které jsem trpělivě leptal v hlavě, zaškrtněte ... Myslím:

"Před deseti lety se někdo pokusil zabít vás ... možná byste měli běžet."

(Upozornění na zřejmé obsahy platí pro čtenáře: Násilí.)

Deset let je tak dlouhá. Přizpůsobil jsem se. Přesunul jsem se kolem. Ale ty části té noci, ty hrozné hodiny ráno ... 4am. 5 hodin ráno. V ER do 6 hodin ráno ... části, které jsou vlevo, mám pocit, že zůstanu se mnou navždy.

Nemají strach, tolik. Jsou tam jenom. V rozích. Uvědomují si mě. Takže v jistých ohledech mě udržují v bezpečí.

Daniel Rhinehardt byl můj syn. (Jak se s ním mluvím? Neexistuje vůbec nic hovoru o něm, ale protože to jde online, jako výpověď veřejného záznamu, jako možný výsledek vyhledávání pro Google, může to varovat nějakou chudou ženu, vědět ... Daniel Rinehardt je jeho jméno a já se o něm zajímám jako takový.) Udělali jsme spoustu věcí dohromady, protože jsem ten typ, který jsem objevil, který rád sdružuje jako komunitu. Měl jsem mnoho úspěšných verzí společných domácích, kteří společně vařili nebo chodili na světské pochůzky, takové věci. Bez skryté agendy, bez smyslu pro povinnost ... zdravých vztahů mezi lidmi. To nebyl jeden z nich. Ale byl jsem příliš mladý a naivní, abych to včas zjistil.

Nebudu jít do příliš mnoha detailů, ale tenhle muž mě posedl. Vzpomínám si, že jsem byl na turné po dobu jednoho měsíce, předem zaplacené účty a já jsem od něj obtěžoval telefonní hovory, protože jsem mu nezavolal, nebo nějaký takový nesmysl. Udělali jsme náš první Dragon Con (hlavní konvence v Atlantě, kterou jsem natočil v tomto roce nebo v tomto roce loutkářství) a přišel s námi prodávat obchod. Jednou ráno jsem se probudil v hotelové místnosti v kapele, abych ho našel v posteli vedle mě, což mě zneklidňovalo (zvlášť jsem si vyžádal svou ženskou přítelkyni se mnou spát, abych udržel tuto podivnou toxicitu, kterou jsem začal vybírat dál). Hledal jsem apartmány v září roku 2008. Hledal jsem. Nic jsem neřekl, ale věděla jsem, že musím odejít, ale já jsem to prostě nestiskl dohromady dostatečně rychle.

Dne 20. září 2008 se Rhinehardt na narozeninách přítele Davida opil. V té době jsem nepil a hlídám kamaráda na střeše. Byly trochu citlivé, jako na jiných látkách, ale nevadilo mi to. Důvěřoval jsem jim a věděl jsem, že kontroluji svou situaci. Když jsme se rozhodli, že je čas, abych šla do postele, všichni jsme se trochu uklidnili a každý mě políbil na dobrou noc. Byl to manželský pár a nebylo nic hnusného s hloupými přátelskými polibky, ale Rhinehardtová odložila. Začal křiknout nesmysly a hodil ze střechy židli (byl uloven nižší úrovní a nespadl na ulici). Vyskočil z křiklavých skrytých obscenit a byl pryč. V noci byla rozbitá. Snažili jsme se mu zavolat, protože jsme se všichni zajímali. Také jsem se začal panikavat. Vzal jsem zásah z mého inhalátoru a vrátili jsme se dolů do Davidova bytu. Seděl jsem na posteli, zatímco někteří přátelé mě mluvili dolů a řekli mi, že se opravdu musím vyhnout. Souhlasil jsem a řekl jim, jak jsem se díval, ale v té době nemohl najít nic. Nevím, jak dlouho jsme byli v bytě, když se Rhinehardt vrátil, křičel nesmysl, šel přímo na mě a bodl mě po boku.

Chtěla bych chvíli uvést památku, kterou nemohu nikdy otřásat. Jednoho dne, bez ohledu na nic, Daniel Rhinehardt mi řekl, že jestli někdy probodne někoho, bude se ujistit, že se houpá ze strany. To je místo, kde jsou všechny orgány bezbranné. Bylo to mnohem víc práce, která by mohla být bodnutá zepředu nebo vzadu kvůli hrudníku. On mi to jednou řekl. Dobře předtím, myslím, měl nějaké návrhy, že mě bodl ... ale on mi to řekl. Myslel si, že je to působivé. Tato obrovská znalost násilí.

"... mě bodl po boku." Vypadá to tak málo, aby si je mohl přečíst. Taková malá akce. Jak to odráží i teď?

Naštěstí jsem měl dost reakcionářský smysl, abych se pohyboval co nejvíce, seděl jsem na posteli a odvrátil jsem se tak, aby jeho pěst, ne, nůž ... oba ... zasáhli mé boky a tam se posadili 3 palce (8 cm), namísto mé strany. Moje orgány byly ušetřeny, a zatímco jizva tkáně přitlačila proti němu, můj sedací nerv a tepna byly oba chybí.

Já křičel. Vytáhl nůž zpět a pokusil se mě znovu bodnout, ale někdo jiný odtáhl. Matt McCorkle, David Forbes a Luke Withrow všichni měli tu ruku, aby mi ten večer zachránili život. Někdy se zajímám, co by se stalo, kdyby tam nebyli, kdybych odešel domů. Nejlepší na to, abyste o tom nemysleli, ne teď ani nikdy. To by nebylo dobré. Jak jsem byl v prdeli, byl jsem stále šťastný.

Pak přišla šílenství, která krvácela po celém mém kamarádovi posteli a podlaze. Rhinehardt byl vytlačen z bytu, dveře zamčené. Pokaždé, když někdo zaklepal na ty dveře, ztratil jsem své hovno, úplně vyděšený. Ale současně jsem byl v šoku a snažil se vyřešit, jak bych se nemohl do nemocnice vrátit, jedna zdánlivě zcela logická myšlenka byla: Mattův otec byl veterinář ... takže jsme měli přístup ke zdravotnickým potřebám? Moje zdravotní pojištění nezačínalo za dalších deset dní. (Děkujeme vám za absolutní nic, Amerika.) 911 bylo voláno, protože samozřejmě to bylo. Byl jsem bodnut přímo před skupinou přátel a návštěvníků party. Zůstal jsem ležet na podlaze, zatímco Luke a Danielle drželi ručníky proti mému boku a stehnu, aby se pokusili zastavit krvácení.

Tak to trvalo 20 minut? 2 hodiny? Nemohl jsem to říct (samozřejmě to nemohlo být 2 hodiny, ale ztratil jsem všechny stopy na čas). Nakonec přijeli záchranáři, vystřihli si kalhoty, co nejlépe dokázali krvácet (můj inhalátor, který jsem si vzal během záchvatu paniky, fungoval jako křehčí tenký, takže to bylo nešťastné), a vyrazil mě pryč.

Šok je nádherný pocit. Myslím tím, je to hrozné, ale udržuje vás v klidu. S nimi jsem se "přátelil", byli velmi nadšeni svými novými těsnicími přípravky pro poranění ran. Zvedli mě do ER. Kde mě fotografoval, zdokumentoval, vyčistil, šitěl, sešil a zeptal se milionů otázek, které jsem nevěděl, jak odpovědět.

Mezitím všichni byli někdy v bytě - nyní zločinecké místo - zadrženi. Byly pořízeny další fotografie. Řekl mi, že jsou někde k dispozici, veřejný záznam, ale nikdy jsem je neviděl. Zeptal jsem se jednou, ale nebyl schopen je sledovat.

Řekl jsem detektivem o mém případu, ne, případu * (bylo by zřejmé, že to nebyl Můj případ, spíše že jsem byl v případě státu OBĚŤ), že jsem nemohl jít domů. Nebylo to bezpečné. Měl jsem kamkoliv jít? Každý, s kým bych mohl zůstat? Nevěděl jsem to. Měl jsem přátele ... ale já jsem věděl, Matt, Amanda, David, Luke, Danielle ... ale nevěděla jsem něčí příjmení, nevěděla jsem, jak kontaktovat někoho ... Nejsem si jistý, jestli jsem dokonce měl svůj telefon, ne ... teď že o tom myslím, myslím, že můj telefon a ta taška zůstala na podlaze v bytě. Dostali mi berle, křoviny (znovu, moje kalhoty byly odříznuty) a moje boty a poukaz na taxi a vyprázdněny kolem 9 hodin.

Dali mi boty zpět. Malé porazily černé baletní byty. Jen jsem na ně hleděl. Byli zaplaveni krví. Stál jsem tam, co musím být jedním z nejvíce filmových scén v mém životě, nepořádek, opřený o berle, úplně sám v nemocničním sále, když slunce vykročil po horu a nalil se na mě. Muž mi nabídl invalidní vozík, ale kvůli umístění mé rány jsem se nemohl posadit. Chodil jsem se na chodník ... Neměl jsem tašku, žádné věci, jen moje boty v ruce a když se mi šel řidič kabiny, viděl jsem, jak Luke a Danielle odvrátili roh. Přišli mě najít a následně mě přijmout. Vrátili jsme se zpět do bytu Matt a Amanda, který byl ve stejné budově jako já. Rhinehardt byl v té době ve vězení, takže jsme prošli celým bytím a chytili nám nějaké náležitosti. Některé oblečení, můj laptop, vynález Hugo Cabreta (kniha, kterou jsem chtěla číst), Agathu (kočka, kterou jsem seděla kočkou) a některé další věci, na které jsem zapomněl. Seděli jsme Mattovi a Amandiným bytům trochu, pak vyčerpaní, zpátky do Luka a Danielle, kde bych žil v příštích několika týdnech. Daniel Rhinehardt by byl propuštěn na kauci v tu noc a nikdy by se nevrátil do vězení za tento zločin. Protože systém funguje v Severní Karolíně.

Když jsem se vrátil zpět do Lukáše a Danielleho domu, vzpomínám si na volání svých rodičů.

Zavolám mému příteli Tomovi v ranních hodinách kvůli časové zóně a nechám vzkaz, který říká něco jako "měl bys mi zavolat, jakmile to dostaneš."

Zavolal jsem do práce a požádal, abych trochu nepřišel. Snažil jsem se to vysvětlit.

Tyto světské cvičení.

Potřeboval jsem informovat své lidi.

Začal jsem používat Facebook jen z tohoto důvodu. Chcete-li říct svým lidem z Charlotte, mého rodného města (ne, často to netvrdím), že budu zpátky na krátký pobyt, nemohl jsem řídit, potřebovala pomoc. Potřebné lidi kolem mě ... Nevím. Já vím, že Erich Moffitt, bývalý, ale myslel jsem si, že přítelkyně, mi nikdy nevzpomněl. Jen m�� nechal venku a proplétal jsem se v nejtemnějším prázdném místě, do kterého jsem někdy vnikl. Takže ... jo, zdvořilý kurva vás, kámo.

Všechno šlo ze špatného na horší, když jsem se snažil zotavit, ale stále byly skvělé zajímavosti, na kterých se musíme držet. Můj přítel Tom vytvořil místo pro dárcovství PayPal, protože jsem byl nezajištěný a potřeboval bych pomoc na pokrytí nákladů na zdravotní péči (i když nakonec by se na ně vztahovala Náhrada obětí, ale ne dříve, než by se dostali do platební neschopnosti a krutí věřitelé mě obtěžovali a zavolali incident někdo, který mi ublížil "nehodu"), mě zachytila neuvěřitelná síť přátel v Ashevillu, na kterou jsem navždy nadšeně vidět, na koho se dnes mohu spolehnout a miluju moc. Mé narozeniny, o dva dny později, 23. září, jsem strávil v Charlotte, rodiče mě mě vyzvedli a vzali mě pár hodin do svého domova, několik dní poté, co to dalo smysl. Bylo to během plynové krize, ale nevěděla jsem. Můj přítel Mike Walker a jeho manželka Marie přišli do domu svého rodiče, shromáždili mě v zadní části svého auta a vyrazili mě za etiopské jídlo na mé narozeniny. Bylo to opravdu zvláštní.

Spoutala jsem se s Agathou, kočkou, kterou jsem seděla kočka, v Luke a Danielleině malém pokoji. Byla mým stálým společníkem, když jsem se zotavil. Četl jsem Vynález Huga Cabreta. Je to jedna z mých oblíbených knih dodnes. Je to snadné, krásné, hustě ilustrované a já se v něm ztratím. Četl jsem to znovu a znovu, nebo ji jen otevřete a podívejte se na to. Je to ještě komfort, který nemohu úplně popsat. Pokojný, tmavý, stabilní. Dobrodružství, ale bezpečné. (Fun, kupím si kopie knihy, kdykoli je vidím v obchodech z druhé ruky, abych jí dala kamarádům. Mám teď jednu, kterou někdo nevědomky prohlásil.)

Měla jsem na sobě punk rockovou bundu, pokryté náplasty a odznaky, když jsem byla bodnutá, ale o tom jsem nic neřekla. Když jsem byl v soudní budově, podával jsem dočasný zadržovací příkaz, dal jsem do kapsy nějaké mince a oni padli na podlahu. Nůž prošel rovnou. Později jsem ji vyšrouboval červeně a potom stříbrný závit, na kterém spočívaly svorky. Nejoblíbenější punk rocková bunda. Stále ho mám, ale už ji nenosím.

Vrátil jsem se do Asheville příliš brzy, abych udělal show Hellblinki. Byl jsem neuvěřitelně z toho. Vzpomínám si, že Ian (který bych měl 5 let, mnohem později) navštívil tuto show a objímal mě a neměl žádnou pozemskou představu, co jsem prošel. (Mělo to být varování, opravdu, myslím teď, ale z místa štěstí, lásky a sarkasmu.) Ztratil jsem se na gauči na místě konání. Zaměstnanci baru a majitel věděli, co se děje a díval se na mě, a řekla mi, jestli vůbec potřebuji něco, COST, jen se k nim dostat. Stačí jít do The Rocket Club a oni to roztřídili. Rocket Club je pryč, ale myslím, že si myslím, že nabídka stále stojí s Kenem.

Zotavil jsem se fyzicky. Na chvíli jsem použil hůl, ale nakonec jsem 99%. To, že 1% se objeví znovu a znovu, nesnesitelnou bolestí, pokud dostanete masáž, nebo jen divné vzory počasí a tkáň jizvy.

Emocionálně a mentálně jsem v pořádku. Mám PTSD (posttraumatickou stresovou poruchu), ale to není překvapující. Kdybych narazil na Daniel Rhinehardt a mám tu neuvěřitelnou neštěstí, že to dělám znovu a znovu, je to nějaký "výpadek". Jdu do tohoto neuvěřitelného okamžiku boje nebo letu a já vždycky volím letu. Není to volba. Je to pro mě. Já "přijdu", když běžím po ulici, schovávám se v koupelně nebo odjíždím (je to děsivé něco jako "probudit se" ve svém vlastním těle a zjistit, že jste řídil auto.) Tyto výpadky nejsou " t černá, ale stávám se mnohem víc cestujícím a mozek ještěrka přebírá. Jsem si většinou vědom toho, co se děje, ale já nejsem kontrolovaný.

Daniel Rhinehardt nedostal vězení. Dostal probaci, vyžadoval poradenství a je odsouzený zločinec. Není to moc. Není to moc, ale alespoň to není nic. Má rekord. A od toho mě přidává. To je hlavní důvod, proč to píšu. Protože za mnou napadal ženy.

Později bych měl několik žen, abych mi řekl, jak je zneužíval nebo byl násilný, ale vždy se báli jít k policii. To rozbíjí mé srdce a dělá mi neuvěřitelně rozzlobený. Nikdy bych nebyl vystaven tomuto nebezpečí, kdyby existoval nějaký záznam, kdyby se lidé navzájem varovali před násilnými muži. Naštěstí jsme jako kultura lépe na tom teď, o deset let později. Soudní řízení na soudu by bylo směšné, kdyby to nebylo tak zatraceně tragické. Rinerhardtův právní zástupce tvrdil, že v tu noc pil jen proto, že nechce být hrubý svým hostiteli, a pak tvrdí, že jeho opilství nějak znamená, že jeho násilí není ve skutečnosti on. David mě popadl za ruku. Mohla jsem říct, že je zuřivá. Byl jsem v podivném stavu nedůvěry a také jsem jen souhlasil s tím, že systém soudního dvora NC neudělal a neposlouchal mě.

Po soudním slyšení jsem byl omráčen. Ale vzpomínám si, že jsme šli do šedého únorového dne a dostali kávu. Co jiného můžete dělat? Během těch pěti měsíců jsem se dostala k tomu, že mě nic moc šokovalo. Přijal jsem to tak, jak jen mohu. A měla kávu.

Dostal jsem omezující příkaz, ale každý rok, když jsem se vrátil k obnovení, nějaký soudce za stolem mi připadal, že bych si toho nezasloužil, protože pokud by to nebylo porušeno, proč to potřebuji? Jeden z nich, ten poslední (předtím, než jsem přestal chodit, aniž bych se musel vystavovat traumu znovu a znovu) mi říkal "slečna Rhinehardtová", opravdu hrozné lidi, kteří mě o mě úplně nestarali. Opět v Severní Karolíně se na tebe dívám tolik opovržení, jak se s ženami zacházíš.

Všechna mé právní dílo bylo zpracováno pro bono Pisgah Legal, a já jim vděčím navždy. Byl jsem vyděšený, že bych se nehodlala, nebo bych musel prokázat, že se to stalo, nebo nevím co, ale ne, byla jsem pevně podporována a řekla jsem, že volání 911 a fotky byly strašné, ale také neuvěřitelně zločinné ve prospěch mé . Zvláštní výhoda, myslím. Také, protože můj útok je technicky domácí násilí, mám přístup k poradenství prostřednictvím Helpmate a OurVoice, kteří jsou oba fantastické zdroje.

Požádal jsem o pas. Zdálo se, že je to správná věc. Chtěla jsem opustit zemi. Chtěl jsem to trochu nechat za sebou. Pauza přišla poštou, ale ve stejný den přišla kontrola od Victim's Compensation, která mě konečně zaplatila za veškeré lékařské faktury, které jsem musel pokrýt. Dal jsem je dohromady a o pár měsíců později opustil zemi, kde chodil na festival s kapelou v Londýně a Whitby a navštívil svého drahého přítele Xavi Quera v Barceloně v Katalánsku.

Ještě víc se to děsí ... Nikdy mi to vůbec nemůžu napsat, a možná to, co zbylo, prostě zmizí do neznáma. Ale to stačí. Kromě toho stojí za to říkat: o pár let později mi na Facebooku zasáhla žena, protože se setkávala s Danielem Rhinehardtem a on ji vyděsil. Slyšela o mně a chtěla vědět, jestli "to bylo všechno pravda". Řekl jí, že má záznam, ale říkal, že jsem na něj podváděl nebo nějaký jiný nesmysl, což je směšné z několika důvodů (nejednali jsme, hrubé a kdybychom byli - jak to odůvodňuje útok na ženu !?) spousta červených vlajek na téhle, ale tato žena je neviděla až příliš pozdě. Já jsem ji varoval, a ona odešla, nebo mi to bylo řečeno. Ale o několik měsíců později byl zatčen za útok na ženu a měla zlomenou čelist. Nevím, jestli jsou stejné, ale mám slušné síly odpočtu.

Byl zatčen i jiný čas, protože jsem byl informován prostřednictvím mugshotu (ještě jednou se mi to nepotřebuje vidět, děkuji, ale tam bylo) za další útok na ženu. Nevím příběh, nechci vědět ... a pravděpodobně už to ví. Je to vzor. Poznávám vzory.

Řekl jsem, že jsem do něho narazil. To je strašně hrozné. Mám jiného kamaráda, který vypadá nejasně jako on, což vede k roztomilé komediální chybě, která ještě pro mě znamená roztržení PTSD. Začínám se s tím lépe a tento přítel ví, co se opravdu ptám, když říkám: "Jste v restauraci X? Nebo Hej, jsi v centru? "Protože dávám pár vzácných vteřin, doufám, že ano, to jsem já!" A pak úleva ... ačkoli obvykle skončila se mnou hyperventilací někde jinde poté, co jsem utekla, doslova bez myšlení .

Ale Valerii! Obvykle jste o věcech tak pozitivní! Jaká je to stříbrná podšívka?

Ne. Nejsem tam ještě, ale dostanu se tam. Je něco strašného, že se někdo pokusí zabít vás. Někdo, komu jsi věřila. Něco, co se rozpadá uvnitř vás a nikdy nebude stejné. Je divné mít chvíli, kdy se někdo jiný rozhodl, že chtějí ovládat váš osud, váš život a řídícím způsobem mám na mysli zkusit to děsivě děsit, nebo jen ... ukončit to. Někdo se mě snažil skončit. Mě. To mi po dlouhou dobu poškodilo mou psychiku ... možná natrvalo, ačkoli jsem na ni udělal vlastní točení.

Je tu něco o tomto incidentu, který mě nechal cítit jako člověk méně, byl jsem jinému člověku (bez ohledu na to, jak strašný člověk): nepotřebný. Budu s tím vždycky bojovat, kopírovat je do jiných vztahů s dostatečně slušnými lidmi, touto možností. Nemám přirozeně nízké sebevědomí nebo cokoli jiného, ale jak jsem již zmínil, něco, nějaká důvěra v lidskou slušnost ... se zlomila. A nikdy jsem ji nedokázal dát dohromady správně.

Obávám se, že dávám tomuto incidentu příliš velkou váhu, ale přísahám vám, že bez ohledu na to váží jen tolik, kolik to dělá. Ale to kolísá. Vykopávám minulost a dělám drama? Ne. Snažím se vysvětlit, jak jsem se sem dostala, jak jsem se stala osobou, kterou jsem. Vždy se to snažím přijmout. Přijměte reakce lidí kolem mě. (Místní příspěvek mě anonymně označil za "bodnutý v hýždích", což vedlo k divné tmavé komedii, protože to bylo hloupé to všechno. Někteří lidé by se na to zapletli, někdy bych se snažil smát a to i při nuceném smíchu Bylo opravdu hrozné mít pár přátel, kteří se mi velmi blížili, protože mi chybí vážnost mé situace kvůli jedné špinavé řadě hlášení.Slhala jsem se, ale na chvíli jsem se na to opravdu rozbil .)

Snažím se vysvětlit krásnému novému příteli, že jsem v pořádku, ale nebyl jsem vždy v pořádku a že jsem bojoval jako peklo, abych byl svítícím šťastným borůvkovým dívkám, které dnes mohu být. Ale já, stejně jako každá žena, která kdy ustoupila a řekla: "Držte se, tenhle člověk mi X udělal", cítím, že bojuji se světem, který mi nevěří, ačkoli jak řekl můj právník, ohromné množství důkaz, skutečnost, že k tomu došlo, je zdokumentováno a přesto lidé stále zavírají oči nebo se ospravedlňují. Je to bláznivé. Je to ničí duše.

Mám lidi, s kterými se setkávám, kteří neúmyslně překročili. (Mám strašidelného souseda, který sledoval tento typ násilí, o kterém jsem se zmínil, a já jsem z něj naprosto vyděšený.) Stále mám problémy s nimi pracovat. Téměř vždy muži. Muži, kteří se chtějí dostat příliš blízko, kteří postrádají sociální podněty, kteří jsou strašidelní, kteří zřejmě chtějí něco od mne. Pracuji na tom, abych přijal, že člověk, který mě má zájem, když mě o něj nemám zájem, není nutně hrozbou. Nejsou to všechny hrozby. Nebudou se pokoušet vraždit jen proto, že je odmítnete. Ale ještě nejsem tam. Stále pracuji na tom. Je to nedokončená práce ...

Moje pozitivní točení? Pragmatismus. Mám hluboce zakořeněné chápání, že zítra nikdo není slíbil. Takže teď, když to dělám tak zodpovědně, jsem docela dobře, že se chci po dobrých cestách, co chci. Trvalo mi to chvíli, abych se k tomu vrátila, ale našla jsem zdravou rovnováhu, že budu zodpovědná, a honit po rozmaru, protože kdo ví, svět by mohl skončit zítra. Můj přítel, o kterém jsem se zmínil na vrcholu, mi jednou řekl, že jsem statečný, že jsem ho nahodil dobrodružstvím na druhé straně světa. Nikdy mě nenapadlo statečnost. Byl to fakt, určitě, jsem statečný, ale bylo to opravdu: "Ne, chci vidět toho přítele. A já bych mohl zemřít příští týden. "Myslím, že takhle ... ne opravdu, že bych mohl zemřít příští týden, měsíc, rok ... ale zároveň, ale s jiným zněním. Jenom si myslím, že "chci tuto zkušenost v mém životě, a teď by to mohla být jediná šance, kterou dostanu, a tak to udělám co nejlépe."

Taky jsem dobrodružství. Dělám neuvěřitelné věci a můj život byl dosud velkolepý. Jsem hrdý na práci, kterou jsem udělal, na umění, které jsem udělal, a pokládám přátelství, které jsem našel, a zkušenosti, které jsem měl. To je moje pomsta. Daniel Rhinehardt se mě pokoušel ukončit. Pokusil se mi nevratně zničit můj život a on selhal. A přestože to trvalo nějaký čas, abych táhl své části dohromady, udělal jsem víc, než že jsem ho přežil, prospěl jsem.

Přítel se o tom zmiňoval poté, co jsem nedávno nedávno obzvlášť dobře pracovala (hrát jsem loutky s mým uměleckým hrdinou a fairygodfather, který zde nezmíním o stejných důvodech z důvodu vyhledávání na google), řekla něco podobného "Ty" dělám mnohem víc než jenom přežít. "Zachytila mě, když jsem si uvědomila, že dokonce věděla o celé mojí chybějící události ... Nevadí mi, že lidé vědí, že je to součástí toho, kdo jsem teď. Přemýšlel jsem o tom a řekl "ano". Je to pravda. To je můj cíl. To je to, co dělám. A s tím jsem v pořádku.

Několikrát jsem se zmínil o tom, že jedním z impulzů této tirady tragédie je tento můj nový přítel, který se učí anglicky, a tak jsem chtěl, aby to bylo napsáno, nepořádné, jak to může být, takže nemám dumping spousta anglických slov na něho s kontextem, který se nedá snadno pochopit novými slovy (a tvořil slova, když se snažím popsat nepořádné pocity, které nebyly nalezeny v učebnici) ... ale také pro mé anglicky mluvící přátele, protože jsem nikdy skutečně vyložil celý příběh, nebo dokonce tolik příběhu komukoli ... Jsem otevřený sdílení, ale opravdu sdílení je vyčerpávající. Když vysvětlím, dostávám zvláštní podnět adrenalinu, ale adrenalin pochází ze strachu, nedůvěry, zranitelnosti ... a to prostě vibruje přes můj systém bez výstupu, dokud si neuvědomím, že to nechci. Nepotřebuji to. Jsem jen zničen.

Ale tenhle přítel. Chystám se navštívit jej i ostatní v jiném místě, po druhé straně světa, během několika měsíců. Setkali jsme se v Japonsku, tak proč ne pokračovat v setkání v dalekých zemích, kde mám nemotorné nebo téměř neexistující chápání jazyka? Co by se mohlo pokazit? Vysvětlil jsem to mým matkám asi před týdnem, plánem cesty, termíny, na které se dívám atd. A zeptala se mě (podporně) velmi mateřské otázky: "Věříte této osobě?"

A já jsem odpověděl, aniž jsem si myslel, nebo možná jsem si myslel, ale bylo to reakcionářské: "Ano. Implicitně. "Řekla jsem jí. A není to první cizinec - obrácený přítel, který jsem důvěřoval implicitně, během posledních několika let bylo několik. Stejně smýšlející jednotlivci, kterým jsem se seznámil, nebo k nim narazím a dostanu je, dostanou mě a důvěru jim důvěrně, implicitně a z celého srdce. Tohle už bylo několik let v pracích, abych se vrátil k tomuto bodu, kde můžu jen přijmout člověka, který je dobrý, kdo mě bude hledat, kdo se o mě stará, aniž by na oplátku chtěl něco. Vzájemná důvěra a zranitelnost. Mám štěstí, že jsem to zpátky.

Jsem na dobrém místě. Byl jsem na nějakém dobrém místě. Tato řada strašných okamžiků před deseti lety zanechala stopu a změnila, kdo jsem, ale také mě změnila v to, čím jsem dnes. A jsem šťastná s osobou, kterou jsem skončil. Neděkuju děsivé osobě, že mě pokoušejí zabít, dobro ne. Je to strašná lidská bytost a každá žena by měla zůstat daleko od něj.

Myslím, že existuje jedna věc bezpochyby pozitivní, kterou jsem vzal z této hrozné série událostí. Od té doby jsem v životě procházel drsnými časy, ale nic takového nikdy nebylo. A na to jsem dokázal říct: "Přežil jsem horší než tohle."

A hodně mě to dostalo.

Změnila mou perspektivu, může to být někdy komfort nebo místo síly.

Také tiše vím, že vyhrám každý argument "nejhoršího housemate ever".

To je fakt. Žádný zastřešující shrnutí nebo výzva k akci ... možná "buďte laskaví". Zkuste se stát dobrým člověkem, a pokud uvidíte někoho, kdo se opírá o násilí, zastavte ho. Zavolej policajtům, nemám rád policajty, ale zavřeš to, až to uvidíš. Dejte je do jejich záznamu. Dejte jim záznam. Získali to. Ukažte je v tomto průbojném vyhledávání Google.

Dejte další ženě bojovou šanci.

#violence #czech #international #penpals #robots #robot translation #translation #language learning

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hellotinywonder · 6 years

Text

ten years later...

[Česká Verze] This has been kicking around my head as of late, I have a dear new friend who doesn’t speak much English, and I’ve wanted to tell him about this weird, terrible moment in my life that fundamentally changed who I am and how I will forever interact with the world (both in good ways and bad). But I don’t know how to. So I am writing it all down, which is something I have never done. And then I will leave it here, and of course, once a year I will remember and shake my fist at the world for myself and all the other victims of violent men, and then I will put my fist down, and get back to living my life. It’s that time of year, though...

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. It comes unbidden in the middle of the night. When someone is walking too quickly toward me. When someone says something inappropriate online or in person. When too many of the boxes, of that pattern of violence I have permanently etched in my head, get ticked… I think:

“Ten years ago someone tried to kill you... maybe you should run.” (Obvious content warnings apply, readers: Violence.)

Ten years is so long. I have adapted. I have moved past it. But the parts of that night, those horrific hours in the morning… 4am. 5am. In the ER by 6am… the parts that are left, I feel are going to stay with me forever.

They don’t haunt, so much. They are just there. In the corners. They keep me aware. So in some ways, they keep me safe.

Daniel Rhinehardt was my housemate. (How do I refer to him? There is nothing colloquial about him at all, but since this is going up online, as a statement of public record, as a possible search result for Google, that might warn some poor woman who doesn’t know… Daniel Rhinehardt is his name, and I will refer to him as such.) We did lots of things together, because I am the type, I have discovered, who likes housemates as community. I have had many successful versions of communal housemates, who cooked together, or went on mundane errands, that sort of thing. With no hidden agenda, no sense of obligation… healthy relationships between people. This was not one of them. But I was too young and naive to figure that out in time.

I won’t go into too many details, but this man became obsessed with me. I remember being on tour for a month, bills paid in advance, and I received harassing phone calls from him because I hadn’t called him, or some nonsense like that. We did our first Dragon Con (major convention in Atlanta, that I performed at or now do puppetry at) that year, and he came with us to sell merch. I woke up one morning in my band’s hotel room to find him in bed next to me, which unnerved me (I had specifically requested my female friend sleep with me, to keep this weird toxicity I was starting to pick up on away). I was looking for apartments in September of 2008. I was looking. I hadn’t said anything, but I knew I had to leave, but I just didn’t pull it all together fast enough.

On September 20th, 2008, at my friend David’s birthday, Rhinehardt got drunk. At the time I did not drink and was babysitting friend of mine on the roof. They were a bit touchy feely as they were on some other substances, but I didn’t mind. I trusted them and I knew I was in control of my situation. When we decided it was time for me to go to bed, we all cuddled a bit and they each kissed me goodnight. They were a married couple, and there was nothing untoward with silly friendly kisses, but it set Rhinehardt off. He started yelling nonsense and threw a chair off the roof (it was caught by a lower tier, and did not fall to the street). He stormed off screaming garbled obscenities and was gone. The night was thrown into disarray. We tried to call him because we were all concerned. But I was also starting to panic. I took a hit of my inhaler and we went back downstairs into David’s apartment. I sat on her bed while some friends talked me down and told me I really needed to move out. I agreed and told them how I had been looking, but couldn’t find anything at the time. I don’t know how long we were there in the apartment when Rhinehardt came back in, yelling nonsense, walked straight in at me and stabbed me in the side.

I would like to take a brief moment to mention a memory that I can never shake. One day, apropos of nothing, Daniel Rhinehardt told me that if he was ever going to stab someone he would make sure to swing in from the side. That is where all the organs are, defenseless. It was so much more work to stab from the front or the back because of the ribcage. He *told* me that once. Well before, I think, he had any designs of stabbing me… but he told me that. He thought it was impressive. This vast knowledge of violence.

“...stabbed me in the side.” It looks so small to read it back. Such a small action. How does it reverberate even now?

Thankfully I had enough reactionary sense to move as much as I could, being seated on a bed, and turned myself away so that his fist, no, knife… both... hit my hip and lodged there 3 inches, (8cm or so), instead of my side. My organs were spared, and while the scar tissue presses against it, my sciatic nerve and artery were both missed.

I screamed. He pulled the knife back and tried to stab me again, but was pulled off by someone else. Matt McCorkle, David Forbes, and Luke Withrow all had a hand in saving my life that night. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if they weren’t there, if I had gone home. Best not to think about it, not now or ever. It would not have been good. As fucked as I was, I was still somehow, always, lucky.

Then came the insanity that was bleeding all over my friend’s bed and floor. Rhinehardt was pushed out of the apartment, the door was locked. Every time someone knocked on that door I lost my shit, completely terrified. But at the same time I was in shock and trying to sort out how I could avoid going to the hospital, one seemingly completely logical thought was: Matt’s dad was a vet… so we had access to medical supplies? My health insurance did not start for another TEN DAYS. (Thank you for absolutely nothing, America.) 911 was called, because of course it was. I had been stabbed right in front of a group of friends and party-goers. I was left, lying on the floor, while Luke and Danielle held towels against my hip and thigh to try to stop the bleeding.

That’s how it went for 20 minutes? 2 hours? I could not tell (of course it couldn’t have been 2 hours, but I lost all track fo time). Eventually paramedics arrived, cut my pants off, staunch the bleeding as best they could (my inhaler I took during the panic attack was working as a blood thinner, so that was miserable) and whisked me away.

Shock is a wonderful feeling. I mean, it’s horrible, but it does keep you calm. I “made friends” with them, they were very excited about their new sealing product for puncture wounds. They whisked me into an ER. Where I was photographed, documented, scrubbed, sutured, stapled, and asked a million questions I didn’t know how to answer.

Meanwhile everyone was sort of detained at the apartment -now crime scene- to give statements. More photographs were taken. I’m told they are available somewhere, public record, but I’ve never seen them. I’ve asked once, but was unable to track them down.

I was told by the detective on my case, no, *the* case (it would become very apparent that this was not MY case, rather I was the VICTIM in the STATE’s case) that I could not go home. It was not safe. Did I have anywhere to go? Anyone I could stay with? I didn’t know. I had friends… but I knew Matt, Amanda, David, Luke, Danielle… but I didn’t know anyone’s last names, didn’t know how to contact anyone… I am not sure if I even had my phone, no… now that I think of it,I think my phone and my bag were left behind on the floor of the apartment. I was given crutches, scrubs (again, my pants had been cut off), and my shoes, and a voucher for a taxi, and discharged around 9am.

I was given back my shoes. Little beat up black ballet flats. I just stared at them. They were splattered with blood. I stood there in what must be one of the most cinematic scenes of my life, a mess, leaning on crutches, completely alone in a hospital lobby, as the sun crested the mountain and poured over me. A man offered me a wheelchair, but due to the location of my wound, I was unable to sit down. I hobbled to the sidewalk… I had no bag, no belongings, just my shoes in my hands, and as the cab driver came over to me I saw Luke and Danielle turn the corner. They had come to find me, and subsequently adopt me. We went back to Matt and Amanda’s apartment, which was in the same building as mine. Rhinehardt was still in jail at the time, so we went through my apartment and grabbed some essentials. Some clothes, my laptop, The Invention of Hugo Cabret (a book I had been meaning to read), Agatha (the cat I had been cat sitting) and some other items I forget. We sat around Matt and Amanda’s apartment for a bit, then, exhausted, back to Luke and Danielle’s where I would live for the next few weeks. Daniel Rhinehardt would be released on bail that night, and he would never go back to jail for this crime. Because that is how the system works in North Carolina.

When I made it back to Luke and Danielle’s house I remember calling my parents. Calling my friend Tom in the wee hours of the morning, because of the time zone, and leaving a message saying something like “you should call me back as soon as you get this.” I called work and asked to not come in for a bit. I tried to explain.

These mundane exercises.

I needed to inform my people.

I started using Facebook for only that reason. To tell my people from Charlotte, my hometown (no, I don’t claim that often) that I would be back for a short stay, couldn’t drive, needed help. Needed people around me… I don’t know. I do know that Erich Moffitt, an ex -but I thought friend- never returned my call. Just left me out there, drifting in the darkest void I’ve ever drifted in. So... yeah, a polite fuck you, dude.

Everything went from bad to worse as I tried to recover, but there were still wonderful highlights to cling to. My friend Tom created a paypal donation site for me, as I was uninsured and would need help covering the medical bills (though in the end Victim’s Compensation would cover them, but not before they went into default and cruel creditors would harass me and call the incident of someone stabbing me an “accident”), I was caught by an incredible network of friends in Asheville, who I am forever overjoyed to see, who I can rely on to this day, and I love dearly. My birthday, 2 days later on Sept 23rd, I spent in Charlotte, my parents collected me and took me to their home a few hours away for a few days following which made sense. It was during a gas crisis, but I didn’t know. My friend Mike Walker and his wife Mary came to my parent’s house, collected me in the back of their car, and drove me out for Ethiopian food on my birthday. It was truly special.

I bonded so much with Agatha, the cat, who I was cat sitting, in Luke and Danielle’s little guest room. She was my constant companion as I recovered. I read The Invention of Hugo Cabret. It is one of my favourite books to this day. It is easy, beautiful, densely illustrated, and I would get lost in it. I would read it over and over, or just open it and look at it. It’s still a comfort that I can’t quite describe. Calm, dark, stable. An adventure, but a safe one. (Fun fact, I buy copies of that book whenever I see them in second hand shops, to give to friends. I have one now that was just unknowingly claimed by someone.)

I was wearing my punk rock jacket, covered in patches and badges, when I was stabbed, but thought nothing of it. When I was in the courthouse, filing for a temporary restraining order, I put some coins in my pocket and they fell out onto the floor. The knife had gone straight through. I later stitched it back shut in red, and then silver thread over where the staples had gone. The punkest punk rock jacket. I still have it, but I don’t wear it anymore.

I came back to Asheville too soon, to do a Hellblinki show. I was incredibly out of it. I remember Ian (who I would date for 5 years, much later) visiting that show and hugging me and having no earthly idea what I had been through. (It should have been a warning, really, I think now, but from a place of happiness, love, and sarcasm.) I passed out on the couch at the venue. The bar staff and owner knew what was up and looked out for me, and told me if I ever needed anything, ANYTHING, just come to them. Just go to The Rocket Club and they would sort it. The Rocket Club is gone now, but I think to think that the offer still stands with Ken.

I recovered physically. I used a cane for a while, but eventually, now, I am 99%. That 1% shows up now and again, excruciating pain if getting a massage, or just weird weather patterns and scar tissue.

Emotionally and mentally I am okay. I have PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), but that’s not surprising. If and when I run into Daniel Rhinehardt, and I have the unbelievable misfortune of doing so now and again, I sort of “blackout”. I go into this incredible fight or flight response moment, and I always choose flight. It’s not an option. It is done for me. I “come to” as I am running down a street, hiding in a bathroom, or driving away (it’s terrifying to sort of “wake up” in your own body and find you’ve been driving a car.) These blackouts aren’t black, but I become much more a passenger and my lizard-brain takes over. I’m mostly aware of what is happening, but I am not the one in control.

Daniel Rhinehardt received no jail time. He was given probation, required counseling, and is a convicted felon. It’s not much. It’s not much, but at least it is not nothing. He does have a record. And he’s added to it since me. That’s the main reason I am writing this. Because he attacked women after me.

I would later have several women come tell me how he had abused them or been violent, but they were always too afraid to go to the police. This breaks my heart and makes me incredibly angry. I would have never been put in this danger if there was some record, if people warned each other about violent men. Thankfully we as a culture are better about that now, ten years later. The sentencing hearing at court would be laughable if it wasn’t so goddamn tragic. Rhinehardt's lawyer claimed he only drank that night because he didn’t want to be rude to his host, then asserting that his drunkenness somehow means his violence wasn’t actually him. David grabbed my hand. I could tell she was furious. I was in a weird state of disbelief and also just acceptance that the NC Court System did not and does not give a fuck about me.

After the court hearing I was dazed. But I remember we walked out into the gray February day, and got coffees. What else can you do? I had gotten knocked about so much over those 5 months that nothing shocked me. I just accepted it as best I could. And had coffee.

I got a restraining order, but every year when I went back to renew it some judge behind a desk made me feel like I didn’t deserve it, because if it had not been violated, why did I need it? One of them, the last one (before I stopped going, not needing to expose myself to that trauma over and over) called me “Miss Rhinehardt”, just truly horrible people who absolutely did not care about me. Again, North Carolina, I am looking at you with so much contempt for how you treat women.

All of my legal work was handled pro bono by Pisgah Legal, and I am thankful to them forever. I was terrified I would not qualify or I would have to prove this happened, or I don’t know what, but no, I was firmly supported and told that the 911 call and the photos were terrible, but also incredibly damning in my favor. An odd benefit, I guess. Also, since my attack is technically domestic violence, I had access to counseling through Helpmate and OurVoice, who are both fantastic resources.

I applied for a passport. Just seemed the right thing to do. I wanted to leave the country. I wanted to leave it all behind for just a bit. The passport came in the mail, but on the same day, a check from Victim’s Compensation reimbursing me, finally, for all the medical bills I had been forced to cover, arrived. I put the two together and a few months later left the country to go do a festival with band family in London and Whitby, and visit my dear friend Xavi Quero in Barcelona, Catalonia.

There’s more mess afterward as well... I can never quite write it all, and maybe what is left out will just fade away into obscurity. But this is enough. Except it is worth saying: a couple years later a woman reached out to me on Facebook because she was dating Daniel Rhinehardt and he was scaring her. She heard about me and wanted to know if “it was all true”. He had told her that he had a record, but said that I had cheated on him or some other nonsense, which is ridiculous for several reasons (we were not dating, gross, and if ever we were- HOW DOES THAT JUSTIFY ATTACKING A WOMAN!?) lots of red flags on that one, but this woman didn’t see them until too late. I did warn her, and she got away, or so I was told. But a few months later he was arrested for assault on a female, and she had a broken jaw. I don’t know if they are the same, but I’ve got decent powers of deduction.

He was arrested another time as well, as I was informed via mugshot (I don’t ever need to see that face again, thank you, but there it was) for another assault on a female. I don’t know the story, I don’t want to know… and I probably already know. It’s a pattern. I recognize patterns.

I mentioned that I’ve run into him. That’s god-awful. I have another friend who looks vaguely like him, which leads to a cute comedy of errors, that still involves a PTSD meltdown for me. I am getting better about it, and this friend knows what I am really asking if I say “Are you at Restaurant X? Or Hey, are you downtown?” because I am giving myself a precious few seconds hoping for a “yes, that’s me!” and then relief… though usually it ends up with me hyperventilating somewhere else, after having run off, literally without thinking.

But, Valerie! You’re usually so positive about things! What is the silver lining of all this?

No. I’m not there yet, but I am getting there. There is something horrible about having someone try to kill you. Someone you trusted. Something that breaks inside you and will never be the same. It’s strange to have a moment when someone else decided they wanted to control your fate, your life, and by control I mean try to fuck it up horrifically, or just… end it. Someone tried to end me. Me. That damaged my psyche for a long time… maybe permanently, though I have put my own spin on it.

There is something about this incident that left me feeling like less of a person, I was to another human being (no matter how terrible a person): dispensable. I will always struggle with that, copying it over to other relationships with decent enough people, this disposability. I don’t have inherently low self esteem or anything, but as I mentioned before, something, some trust in human decency… broke. And I’ve never been able to put it back together right.

I worry that I give this incident too much weight, but I swear to you, fereverently, it weighs only as much as it does. But that fluctuates. Am I digging up the past to make drama? No. I am trying to explain how I got here, how I became the person I am. I am always trying to accept this. Accept the reactions of the people around me. (The local paper referred to me, anonymously, as having been “stabbed in the buttocks”. This led to a weird sort of dark comedy, because how silly it all sounded. Some people would latch onto that, I would sometimes try to laugh about it too, a forced laugh. It was really horrific to have some friends very close to me miss the seriousness of my situation because of one shitty line of reporting. I laughed along, but I was really, really broken about that for a while.)

Trying to explain to a beautiful new friend that I am fine now, but I was not always fine, and that I fought like hell to be the shining happy blueberry girl that I get to be today. But I, like any woman who has ever stepped forward and said: “Hold on, this man did X to me”, I feel like I am fighting a world that will not believe me, despite as my lawyer mentioned, the overwhelming amount of proof, evidence, the fact that this did happen, is documented, and yet people still turn a blind eye, or make excuses. It is maddening. It is soul destroying.

I have people I meet who inadvertently overstep. (I have a creepy neighbour who was following that pattern of violence I mentioned, and I am completely terrified of him.) I still have trouble dealing with them. Almost always men. Men who want to get too close, who miss social cues, who are creepy, who seem to want something from me. I am working on accepting that a man who is interested in me, when I am not interested in him, is not necessarily a threat. They are not all threats. They are not going to try to murder you just because you turn them down. But I am not there yet. I am still working on that. It’s a work in progress...

My positive spin? Pragmatism. I have a deeply ingrained understanding that tomorrow is promised to no one. So now, while I do so responsibly, I am pretty good about going after what I want, in good ways. It took me awhile to work back to this, but I have found a healthy balance of being responsible, and chasing after whimsy because who knows, the world could end tomorrow. My friend, who I mentioned at the top, told me once that I was brave, having caught up to him on a random adventure by myself on the other side of the world. Bravery never occurred to me. It was a factor, sure, I’m brave, but it was really: “No, I want to see this friend. And I could die next week.” I don’t think like that… not really, that I might die next week, month, year… but at the same time I do, but with different wording. I just think “I want this experience in my life, and now might be the only chance I get, so I am going to make it happen to the best of my ability.”

Also, I adventure. I do incredible things, and my life has been pretty spectacular so far. I am proud of the work I have done, the art I have made, and I treasure the friendships I’ve found and the experiences I’ve had. That is my revenge. Daniel Rhinehardt tried to end me. Tried to irreversibly ruin my life, and he failed. And, while it took some time to pull my parts back together, I have done more than just survive him, I have thrived.

A friend mentioned that to me after I had a particularly good day recently (I played puppets with my art hero and fairygodfather, who I will not mention here for the same google search result reasons), she said something along the lines of “You’re doing a lot more than just surviving.” It caught me off guard, I forgot she even knew about my whole getting-stabbed incident… I don’t mind people knowing, it is a part of who I am now. I thought about it, and said “yes.” It’s true. That’s my goal. That’s what I am doing. And I’m okay with that.

I have mentioned a few times that one of the impetus of this tirade of tragedy is this new friend of mine, who is learning English, so I wanted to have this written down, messy as it may be, so that I am not dumping a bunch of English words on him with a context that is not easily understood with new words, (and made up words as I try to describe messy feelings not found in a textbook)… but also for my English speaking friends, because I’ve never really unloaded the whole story, or even this much of the story to anyone… I am open to sharing it, but really, sharing it is exhausting. I get a weird surge of adrenaline when I explain it, but that adrenaline is coming from fear, mistrust, vulnerability… and it just vibrates through my system with no outlet until I realize I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I’m just wiped out.

But this friend. I am going to visit him and others in a different location, still on the other side of the world, in a few months. We met in Japan, so why not continue meeting in far off countries where I have a clumsy or nearly nonexistent grasp of the language? What could possibly go wrong? I was explaining this to my mother a week or so ago, my trip plans, dates I’m looking at, etc, and she asked me (supportively) a very motherly question: “Do you trust this person?”

And I answered without even thinking, or maybe I did think, but it was reactionary: “Yes. Implicitly.” I told her. And he’s not the first stranger-turned-friend that I have trusted implicitly, there have been several over the past few years. Like-minded individuals who I am introduced to, or who I stumble upon and I get them, they get me, and I trust them inherently, implicitly, and with all my heart. This has been years in the works, to get back to this point, where I can just accept a person who is good, who will look out for me, who cares for me without wanting anything in return. A mutual trust and vulnerability. I am lucky to have this back.

I am in a good place now. I have been in a good place for a while. This series of terrible moments from ten years ago left a mark, and changed who I am, but also changed me into who I am today. And I am happy with the person I ended up as. I’m not thanking any horrific person for trying to kill me, goodness no. He’s a terrible human being, and every woman should stay well away from him.

I guess there is one thing undeniably positive thing I have taken away from this horrific series of events. I’ve been through some rough times in my life since then, but nothing ever like that. And to all of it I have been able to say: “I’ve survived worse than this.”

And it’s gotten me through a lot.

It has sort of changed my perspective, it can sometimes be a comfort or a place of strength.

Also, I quietly know that I would win every argument of “worst housemate ever”.

That’s it, really. No overarching summary or call to action… maybe “be kind.” Try being a good person to each other, and if you see someone leaning towards violence, stop it. Call the cops, I don’t like cops either, but you shut that down when you see it. Put it on their record. Give them a record. They’ve earned it. Make them show up in that cursory google search.

Give the next woman a fighting chance.

afterward, another reason why I wrote this, as I explained in my letter to my aforementioned friend:

...and I remember thinking to myself: "oh, scars..." and looking at you and wishing this information was already in your head, but no, I would have to put it there. So I said something like: "there is not enough time" and I left it there. But I hope you also know, from having met me, that I'm alright now. I wasn't for a while. But I am now.

I hope you all understand.

#domestic violence #metoo #me too #assault #tw #it gets better #ten years later #tenyearsago #birthday #violence #violence against women

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hellotinywonder · 6 years

Photo

June 7th, 1942: Edward Hopper completes his best known painting, the seminal Nighthawks. When asked by a Chicago Tribute reporter about the philosophical meaning behind the diner having no clearly visible exits Hopper responded, “Shit. Fuck. I did it again. Goddamnit. Fuck. Not again. I did it again. Shit.” and slammed his hat on his leg.

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hellotinywonder · 6 years

Video

Yay! It's us!

Peter sings along with the participants of (Re)Generation Who 2018

Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis Presley

mix video: 1; 2-3; photo: 1; 2; 3

Thank a lot, Valerie & Theo!

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hellotinywonder · 6 years

Photo

#Pareidolia

#pareidolia

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hellotinywonder · 6 years

Video

This is amazing.

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hellotinywonder · 6 years

Text

(re)Generation 2018: meet your heroes.

DAY THE FIRST, Wednesday:

Snow. Darnit. I’m going delay my trip a day.

DAY TWO, Thursday:

I got up at 5:30a, trekked down to my conveniently already-packed car through the snow, but the streets were clear, and I began my drive westward and northward. Dawn over snowy mountains is spectacular.

I visited with puppeteer friends in Richmond, saw their local makerspace, and hung out with an old friend from my touring days and her new dog, Dave, a rescued sweetheart from Puerto Rico.

DAY THREE, Friday:

Off to DC, with literally NO traffic. I had brunch with the incredible JoJo (Burlesque Poetess), who is a Doctor Who nerd of equal or greater value, and extended bandfamily from ten years ago. It’s been so great to reconnect and talk art and ideas and nerdy references. And how we engage with the universe, and how sometimes the universe engages right back.

After brunch I headed to visit my friend Matt and his wife. It was great. I met Matt a few years ago at a convention, all because I had PuppetCapaldi with me, Matt used to write and draw for Doctor Who comics, and has since become one of my closest art friends and advisors and person to send random texts to in a crisis. Good people, but this is the first time we’ve hung out in person since our initial meeting. It was great. A few hours later I was off to Baltimore.

It took 3 hours. Which didn’t mean much to me, as I don’t drive DC to Baltimore often. But yes… I later learned it should be a 45 min trip. I parked eventually and made my way to the hotel for ReGen. I knew only one person going in, and I promptly sought him out: Drew Meyer. I snuck into the back of his panel (it’s worth mentioning that I met Drew the same day I met Matt, and PuppetCapaldi did those introductions too) and tried to use context clues to make out what it was about. I got as far as Drew referring to the Tardis as “sort of like a windowless van”, when I abandoned that notion and decided I’d just make a note of it, so I could mock him in my end of trip summary… like… now.

After touching base, and handing off my puppet suitcase (Drew was storing it onsite so I could attend the March for Our Lives the next day without needing to worry about a giant rolly-bag and crowds) I caught Irene Richard coming out of the panel she had just hosted with Rachel Talalay. I feel like I’ve known Irene for years, I think it’s how decidedly New Yorker she is, but this was our first time actually meeting. We hit it off, as I knew we would, and then by some twist of awkwardness and fate, I was standing at a table with Rachel Talalay admiring a scribbled storyboard movement sketch. I love things like that. Process-peeks. I realized I didn’t have anything to say to Rachel (aside from the whole: You’re awesome, inspiring, and your eye is fantastic), which is bothersome, because I’m a fairly interesting person at times, and I want to learn so much from her, she’s a powerhouse in the industry I am just starting to dabble in, and am always keeping an eye on. I didn’t have any puppets with me to reinforce that I make stuff, etc. That’s fine, there was a whole weekend ahead.

I skipped out to dinner with Drew and his friend Brent, and shortly after went home to my friend’s house, where there was a party.

The party, I won’t get into too much, but I walked in and it was like knowing everyone. They were activists, peers, they had a prison letter writing campaign going on in the dining room. I had such a wonderful time meeting everyone, it was a completely unexpected bonus. I miss my punkrock anarcho activist friends. Good to see organization like that in Baltimore. I slept in a room with multiple accordions. Perfection. Thank you Jonathan for your hospitality and your excellence.

DAY what is it now? Four? FOUR, Saturday:

I got up early, mostly because I had been and would be antsy about giving my panel on puppet and prop-making that night. No one else in the house is up, and I need coffee and to get to the March.

I get a Lyft to town, remembering seeing a Starbucks a block or two away from the hotel. I’m traveling with just a little backpack and my travel mug as my puppets are stored at Drew’s so I get out and head off to it. *Normally I’d avoid Starbucks and hit up a local cafe, but the Baltimore Harbour is rather commercialized I couldn’t find an indie place to scope out. I was not alone in this…

I walk in, an amalgamation of bleary-eyes and nerves, and to my left I see a familiar figure and hear a voice, and at first I dismiss it, as I don’t quite place it- holy damnit. It’s Peter Capaldi. ***Now, I am going to stop you here. Peter Capaldi is a big deal to me. I met him last year, PuppetCapaldi in tow, and some friends got me to make a 24 hour comic about it. (It’s here https://tinyurl.com/y9cfma2t) worth a read, and it’s flipping cute, and I might reference it once or twice more.***

He’s talking with Rachel. I make my way past them, because they are having a conversation and the day is young, and I am about to go shake my fist at government, and I need coffee and… While I’m waiting in line, they finish their conversation and get up. Fine, universe, I might as well, I wanted to reconnect with Rachel anyway, so I do. I say hello, I explain that this is a very bizarre and rather delightful start to my day at least. Rachel introduces me, Peter shakes my hand. “I’m Peter.” “Valerie.” We talk for a short while. Peter grabs my travel mug and inquires about my Scottish flag sticker with EU stars super-imposed. I explain that, while I am not from the UK, I’ve kept up on Brexit and I talk about meeting with the remainers outside of Westminster, and when I was in Glasgow- Glasgow? Oh yes, and then I point to the sticker next to it, which is a map of one of my favourite cities in the world: Glasgow (my travel mug is adorned in stickers from places I’ve been recently, namely Glasgow and Berlin, and Tokyo…) Peter doesn’t quite recognize it, so I point out The Clyde, and it clicks. “Oh!” He says, then we start to talk about Glasgow. It’s brilliant. He points to a place on the map and shows us: “I have a flat right around here.” I show him where I stayed, across from Kelvingrove. “Oh, that’s the West Side.” He’s right, but I act jokingly incensed. Glasgow, Glasgow, Glasgow, and then it’s time to go. We say our goodbyes. And they are on their way and I will see them later and…. I need coffee.

I walk back to the hotel a few minutes later (to set eyes on puppets, make sure everyone’s all set, and tuck them away at the Pixel Who booth, who have lovingly adopted us for the weekend), glowing. It occurs to me I just got to talk to Peter Capaldi about Glasgow. Not Doctor Who, not The Thick of It, not Puppets, just Glasgow, a city we have a mutual fondness for. This is somehow the best thing ever.

Okay, get your head together, Valerie. It’s time to go to the March. So I do, it’s about 4 blocks away, an easy walk and the whole time I’m overwhelmed with what today might end up being like. The March is indescribable. I went to the local Baltimore version, knowing DC would be too much to contend with if I am to teach a puppet workshop that evening, but I believe it was worth stepping out wherever and being counted in the hundreds of thousands of people demanding better gun control in the US. Kids are on the microphone, empowered by their peers, and finding their voice, and demanding their safety, and I’m already just emotionally dilated and I begin to cry. It was such a powerful morning.

After a couple hours, I’m starting to fade. I leave the March, return to the hotel, get some food and grab my date, a 3 year old, beat to hell, semi-retired PuppetCapaldi. He is the goshdarn belle of the ball when it comes to conventions like these, especially when Peter is present. We go to a panel interview of Peter. As he’s my aforementioned ArtHero, I am terribly interested in what he has to say, but I don’t care as much about meta Doctor Who information unless it’s fun anecdotes of monsters and puppetry, of which there are a couple. The only thing I am interested in him answering related to Doctor Who is what was it like to make something like this in the world of Brexit or Trump, or how does Doctor Who intersect with our current reality, because sometimes it seems to offer direct commentary, and Saturday (with the March) was just a particularly important day. A sort of: did Doctor Who, the franchise, feel it has a duty of care, with how it couches its viewpoint in media, etc. I never got to ask that question, but someone asked one similar. His answer was lovely, talking about how ultimately Doctor Who is being made for kids, and giving them the globalist (universalist) perspective of The Doctor will help shape their thinking and the world as they inherit it. That world leaders should be afraid, because Doctor Who is communicating with the generations that will replace them. It wasn’t quite the question I had, but it was close enough. Thank you, whoever asked it. I looked for her after (she had blue wristlets), but never found her.

I ran into Rachel again after this, and donated to WhoAgainstGuns and got a lovely postcard of the (now dismantled) Tardis interior, which I love, a set I desperately wish I could have seen, could have been on, and I did try. She signed it to me. “To Valerie from Starbucks” and we talked about how we both ended up there that morning for lack of other options. I apologized for bothering them, but there was no need. It also caught me offguard to be remembered. That’s a long time problem for myself. I’ve written about it many times before. I am getting accustomed to the concept that people do in fact have object permanence when dealing with me. It’s nice to be remembered.

I’m about to go get our little family photo taken, when Michelle Gomez passes by and sees PuppetCapaldi she makes “the face” as I have come to call it. “Whaaaaarghourgh!” She yells as she’s rushed by. I make a note to find her later. She made the “I know that guy!” face, and I think she wants a picture with it.

I am currently, in present as-I-write-this day, realizing how darn wordy I am. I’ll try to condense. We have our photo taken. Peter puts together that I am me. The woman from this morning, but also that we have met before, once he sees the puppets. I let him play with the finger puppet, and before I know it we’re looking into the monitor (THEY HAVE A MONITOR, BLESS YOU!) and I’m talking about finding focus, etc. A photo is taken of me adjusting Peter’s arm while he stares down the camera, and then one where I look at the camera but he, and all puppets present, are focused on the monitor. Both are super adorable.

We’re removing puppets, etc and Peter says “You made all these, yes?” Oh yes. Someone prompts me and I mention the puppet I brought that is loosely based on Armando Iannucci, not that anyone would recognize it. “I would recognize him” Peter says. “Bring him by and show me.” So, that’s that. I’m off. A bit thrilled that I’m getting a reputation as the puppet lady. I mean, I’m certainly working at it, but attaining it is an altogether different feeling.

I’m sitting outside in the hallway playing with two little girls who were there for photos and talking to them about puppets and Sesame Street, and that sort of thing, when Peter and his folks pass us. The girls and I (and PuppetCapaldi) wave at them, and I continue to pack my photo into my Spacejunk sketchbook and then I’m alone in the hall. I head for the elevators and as I turn the corner I walk into the most wonderful scene:

Young Theo Tidemann (who I did not know at the time) has just started playing ukulele at Peter’s request, while we’re all waiting for elevators. Theo starts “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.” It’s wonderful. It’s sweet. It’s about to get even better. Peter starts to sing along, then slowly we all do. A bunch of strangers, singing in impromptu harmony. It’s so magical. Singalongs are like my religion. That metaphysical energy of communion through song? It’s transcendent to me. Early on I realized that I was in a perfect moment, and I thought of this kid I was about to meet, and he deserved a video of this. So I juggled my puppets a bit and took some poor quality video with my phone, it pans up and fades out, and it doesn’t matter. It’s the perfect moment, and we can rewatch it anytime. (It’s on @hellotinywonder’s instagram… https://www.instagram.com/p/Bgt7jO8Ar25/ and BBC-A put it in an article about Doctor Who’s Day recently) Other things happen that day. I get a moment with Michelle, she takes a photo with PuppetCapaldi, but I’ve never seen it since. I am still looking for it. It’s a great exchange, though. Showing someone your art because they are excited about it. I’m pretty proud of that. I play ukulele in a room of other ukulele people… it’s ukubiquitous!

I sit in a dark corner and just breath a bit. I end up talking about puppets with the custodial staff, and it’s one of the most delightful conversations of the weekend. Throughout, I am adrift.

PUPPET PANEL! It went WELL! Kathy O’Shea David helped out and brought her army of puppets as well, I would go on, but really, it was mostly just me talking about puppets, how to build, what to use, asking questions, answering questions, and corralling a puppet petting zoo. Unexpected hit of the posse was Kyle the Fish! Everyone loves Kyle, I demonstrated my feelings on ventriloquism with him (when using a puppet, in my opinion, moving your mouth doesn’t matter, if your focus on the puppet is correct, and your manipulation is believable and you hit your lipsync, people will just accept it.) As I started to put puppets away, when my panel was over I looked up and saw Kyle, some kid was manipulating his mouth, and it was so moving. I make reference puppets like I do fanart, to expose people to the other stuff I do. Do you like PuppetCapaldi? He’s a portrait puppet, a skill I possess, and can do for anyone! Do you like this Rick from Rick and Morty? He has moving eyes, a mech I designed, and also use over here… People fell in love with Kyle, who is my very own intellectual property, and that meant the world to me.

At some point, I and my puppet rolly-bag float away to bed.

DAY I FORGET, IT’S THE LAST ONE, Sunday

I drive myself in this time, so I can scoot off when I’m done. Puppets stay in the car, with the exception of PuppetCapaldi, my date, and Armando, who I debate quietly… I mean, he’s janky, he’s not quite right, he’s not a portrait puppet, he’s just *based* on Armando Iannucci… do I want to show a piece to Peter that I don’t fully stand behind? I’ll decide later. I stuff him into my travel tote which I realize then is my tote from the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. I sigh. I am the biggest nerd ever, even when I don’t mean to be.

I have Coffee with the Creators. This is delightful. I get to pick some people’s brains, and let others just tell me about what they do. I am thrilled to get to speak more with Simon Fraser, a comic book artist for Doctor Who, I swear, I do collect them as friends, it seems. I also get to meet Steve Gostelow whose table I’d been eyeing throughout, but we missed eachother. He was a monster maker, and sculptor, and having a materials and process geekout was fantastic.

There’s a moment when Rachel is about to come to our table, and she has to get up and leave, we make this brief sort of eye contact and I realize as she’s headed out, that it’s fine. We’ll catch up later, that is such a strange and wonderful feeling. She tells me later she had to run up and get her photo taken with the three Doctors. Adorable. Flipping Adorable. I will see her again in a little over a month, and that is spectacular.

I am walking around the con, taking it all in and Peter and his small group walk by, I’m talking with my new fellow blue-haired early 30’s lady friend Gale at Nightengale Needles, and I look up and see him. I have nothing to say to him so I resort to my clown communication skills and make a friendly, but decidedly silly face.

It is returned.

This is a professional milestone, in my book.

Later I am in the vendor area, and I meet up with Simon Fraser and his family. We talk a bit more, he likes PuppetCapaldi (really, that puppet handled nearly all my introductions, it’s great). I am looking through his portfolio of work for sale, mostly because what he is selling is traditional blue pencil and ink, and I like just looking at people’s work, understanding how they develop a peice. Then I see the page. It’s 4 vertical panels of Osgood throwing her scarf to a falling Twelfth Doctor. She saves him. He is appreciative and grumpy. She looks like me. I’ve seen this page, I’m told it’s from a Free Comic Book Day issue, from Titan, I assume. I was eyeing a wallet made out of it on Etsy, I love it. I love the composition, the dynamics, the SHELOOKSLIKEMEness of it all. And here it is. Waiting for me.

I rarely buy things at conventions, but this page has been in my mind for almost a year? And I love it, and now it’s mine. And in some strange cosmic organization, it was always mine.

On my way out I touched base again with Steve Gostelow. I show him my “Celastic: Do It Old School!” button. While he didn’t use Celastic, he still appreciates it. We talk a bit more maker shop and it’s wonderful.

Okay, the last line for meet and greet and autographs. As I said in my comic, these are the people PuppetCapaldi was made for. We had time, and I struck up conversations with all the lovely people around me, especially this woman, Michelle, who gave me a clif bar. Smart folks. I showed her the comic, which gave her a bit of context into what was about to happen.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with getting an 8x10 glossy photo signed, but that is not where I am at. When people set down what they would like to have signed, I pulled out my do-not-lose-me-orange A4 #Spacejunk notebook and open to a random page. That is what I want signed.

When I’m about to meet Peter, again, I take off PuppetCapaldi, that’s not what this is about. The woman in front of me is having her Missing DoSAC Files book (one of my favourite books ever) signed “by Malcolm”. Peter pens a short, furious, and F-laden diatribe for her. She thanks him and wishes him a happy birthday. “Ah yes!” He says. “Thank you.” He goes on to sign a photo she had in her collection of signables. “You know, I’ll be 60,” he starts, “and when you’re 60 the government gives you a little pass. And I can take all the buses and trains for free.” The public transit junkie in me is thrilled. It’s always nice to have common geekery with the people you look up to.

Oh, then it’s my turn. Okay, then. I try to briefly and calmly (everything is madness around me) explain that I am here to ask him for some advice, or encouragement, that I, and many like-minded friends of mine are all at these weird professional empasses, and I look up to him, and have for some time, even this puppet has gotten me work out in the big crazy world of TV and Film. He smiles and grabs a blue sharpie (which I realize I had secretly hoped he’d use blue, despite the several black, silver, and gold sharpies on the table).

“Shall I make it out to you?” “Sure.” I say, (I mean, fair is fair, I’ll share the advice, but this is my letter, sorry kids.) “...I’m Valerie.” I continue. “I know.” He says and continues to write.

I’m again caught off guard at this display of object permanence. This hero of mine knows me. Knows my work…

He is writing, but stops. “Have you got your Armando with you?”

Ulp. More object permanence.

“Well, I mean, yes, but it’s not quite-” “I want to see it!” He puts the pen down. He’s written something about stars aligning.

I dig Armando out, explaining that he’s only *based* on him, for a show I’m building… I slip my hand through the secret hole in the sleeve, and lift the puppet’s head.

Peter makes what I have described earlier as “the face”.

He gasps, giggles, then buries his face in his hands. Armando looks around a little frantic, and a little jangly, scratches his head. Peter lifts his head, locks eyes with me, locks eyes with the puppet, and devolves into laughing. “It’s *so* like him!” he says. “I need to show this to him.” His handler takes our photo together. Peter explains “this one is special, this is for a friend of mine.” A woman who I guess knows Iannucci’s likeness also gets it and now she’s laughing.

“I’m going to send this to him!” Peter tells me while his friend takes the photo, “He’ll love it!”

Peter sits back down, again telling me how much Puppet Armando is like Proper Armando and recomences writing. He just keeps going, we’ve stopped talking, and it’s rather quiet, surrounded by the din of the convention. Sharpie on paper, scratching.

Someone behind me taps me on the shoulder and checks to see if I am doing okay. I tell them I am fine, and I am. I am perfect.

He’s stopped mid-sentence, and is just writing “work” over and over in the margins.

He finishes. Having filled the page, which is adorable. “There. Is that alright?” He asks. I tell him it is. And I thank him. “Good luck.” he says, handing it up to me. “And have fun.” (I will.)

“You are very talented.”

All of this means so incredibly much to me, I don’t think I can properly explain. I thank him again and look up. The rest of the world races back into my consciousness. Michelle, my new friend from the line, is only a little bit crying. “Are you crying?” I ask. “Maybe!” She says. And I realize she is, because she gets it. Because she read a silly little comic about this weirdo art girl who is just collecting advice, inspiration, and encouragement from the people she looks up to, and somehow today it’s coming together perfectly.

Empathy Abounds.

Peter and I say good-bye, and I’m off to put Armando away more properly.

(Oh, I also scurry back to the table to pick up Armando’s eyebrow which fell off. Peter looks up and I hold the eyebrow up to my own and it all registers. Such a puppeteer move, you guys.)

After that it’s just a farewell fanfare finale. I say goodbye to everyone and then I am off. Completely rejuvenated artistically, emotionally, professionally… I can’t describe it all, and I’ve been doing nothing but describing it all for seven pages of a google doc!

I drive through the evening and end up in Staunton, VA, just as the sunset turns to night, to stay with my friend before heading home the next day. We order Chinese, as she’s also just come back from performing and we are prolevel ladies that deserve a night in. We’re talking about art, and Fringe festivals, my weekend, and hers, it’s great to continue this creative thread outside of my Baltimore adventure. I open my fortune cookie, which says: “Watch for a stranger to soon become a friend.” That’s sort of how I’ve been living my life, as of late. We make more tea.

Pan Up.

Fade Out.

#doctorwho #peter capaldi #rachel talalay #regeneration who #baltimore #adventure #puppetcapaldi #fingerpuppetcapaldi #tinywonder #puppets

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