Publisher's Synopsis
When I was a little girl, I found a dead body in the utility room of my grandparent's Florida home. That was when I was threatened that I would have my throat slit if I talked about it. I was drugged for I don't know how long. I remember that it was sad to me that I couldn't play because of the chemicals I was forced to wash down.
At night, I would hear my grandfather on the phone threatening people, to tear them apart. There was a lady that worked for him who put strychnine in my food, which in small amounts works like a neurotoxin causing pain. She did this to teach me to listen only when she was looking at me and not when she was talking to someone else. When I was a little girl, my grandfather gave me to men for money, favors, or to set them up. I was eight years old when I was dressed up and left in a house alone to be abused. There was a camera hidden. We were given drugs to sedate us, confuse us, and affect our memories. Once I was told directly that it was "to make you defenseless". Victims in general commonly experience being blamed or having their experiences denied. Being abused inside a group of high profile, respected in some cases, wealthy, politicians, and celebrities is not an easy thing to talk about. People might think it was a joke when it isn't a joke. It can be dangerous as well. In the Epstein situation, we saw the son of a Federal Court Judge who was overseeing the case experience having her son killed. I have been told by security at my previous workplace that I was being followed. Still, even where there has been evidence, the government has never recognized me as someone who was victimized. I believe it is because people implicated in the abuse have held significant political positions. I was diagnosed in my 20s with PTSD and I was grateful for the recognition in that diagnosis that I did experience trauma. I didn't think about things that happened in the past that I wasn't allowed to talk about, that would get me hurt for talking about, or get me called crazy. 2019, I was called into a meeting. There was a police officer and coworkers present. I was told the FBI was on the phone. I was bewildered. People were suddenly talking about things that I hadn't been able to talk about. They had me look at pictures of an actor I met as a child who was very important to me. I was on the scene when that actor overdosed, the night he died. I cried a lot. They wanted me to talk about a certain politician. I felt abused again, as an adult, blindsided, and like once again people were using abuse I endured as though it were entertainment or possibly in line with a political agenda. I left that school to go work at another one. When covid started and we shut down and went remote, I had time alone at home to reflect on what happened. I started writing, allowing the memories to surface. I published my journal, my process of putting together fragmented memories, nightmares, and dreams.