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Cover 05/22/2013

The Survivors Project

Excerpts from ebook that gives sexual-abuse survivors a chance to tell their stories

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The girl and I found this psycho guy that let us rent a room out of his apartment. This is where we were introduced to a guy who made his living suing people, selling drugs, and just happened to inherit a good chunk of money from his family. He was also a drunk. He kept a safe on a boat that was beached at a marina, and as soon as we got the chance, we stole the safe, which contained $ 90,000 cash and a half-pound of weed. The girl’s mother drove us, got a hotel room, and tools to crack the safe, and we split it three ways. It was quickly spent on getting out of Florida, two cars, a motorcycle, hotels in Center City Philadelphia and drugs.

We bought ounces of PCP and would drive down South. The cops stopped us because the new car had dealer tags, and they took us and four ounces of wet to the train station, but impounded the car. Back down south in Myrtle Beach. Buying probably 2 grams of black tar heroin a day, which was $200-$400 a day depending on who we were partying with. Bought another car to get the one out of impound in Philly and picked up the girl I was with, and my ex-girlfriend, which became a bizarre triangle, and this continued until getting arrested by the Avondale, Pa., police. We all gave a different name. My girlfriend didn’t have a license so she used mine even though she’s like a foot taller than me and Italian.

We almost got away when the last thing the cop said was, “Do you mind if I search your car?” Multiple times before we had said, “No,” but for some reason she agreed this time, despite knowing there was all kinds of paraphernalia and drugs in the car. I believe this was my wake-up call. I spent almost five months in Chester County prison. The cops wouldn’t pick us up for court dates because I later found out that the girl’s father was responsible for another cop getting shot.

My time there was HELL. I was coming off about a three-bundles-a-day habit (about 30 bags) to nothing except some jailhouse cocktail that didn’t do much. I was shitting myself, delusional, trying to take stuff out of the wall and talking to people that weren’t there. I was a mess. Tracks up and down my arms, neck and feet. I was 5’3” and weighed maybe 90 pounds. I wouldn’t call my family because I was so ashamed of who I was and what I did. I later found out my father hired an investigator to find out if I was alive or not and Avondale being the small town it is had our story in their paper.

In jail, I took any kind of program just to get out of my cell. This led me to a parenting class even though I have no children. (Thank God.) I happened to say that I had been molested and raped, and a woman told me that I was abused, and that abuse isn’t love. That finally seemed to click and give me a little relief. At least, enough to acknowledge that it happened and I needed to get over it and start my life.

I was 26 when I got locked up in June 2010. I still have a problem with drugs, although now I am trying to quit with methadone, again. I also use Xanax and eventually this is the only prescribed drug that I want to be on and I am fine with that, because after you have lived the life I’ve lived, my brain is so screwed up I wouldn’t even leave the house. I still have dreams of being trapped, running and raped.

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