Operation **Reclaim** Loveland

The False Reporting Accusation

The following is my personal account of seeking help for childhood sexual trauma. This account details the dangers of mandatory reporting, and sheds light on the systemic abuse of victims by law enforcement.

Asking For Help – Target on my Back

I Was At Odds

I did not really understand what dissociation was, but I was really good at it, and it scared me. When I realized I couldn’t pull off going back to school I felt so desperate, so stuck. I had become the scapegoat a long time before that. I didn’t have a lot of friends, and Mom did everything she could to cut me off from everyone. It was obvious that she would be continuing to remove my access to the outside world.

When I was little, they all said I could be anything. They said I was smart, and that now that a woman could do just about any job, I could be anything. Anything.

I was also in a lot of pain. I had arthritis pain in my hands and feet since I was 8-ish. I had accumulated some pretty bad knee pain, and my joints popped a lot. My nerves were bathing in cortisol, which amplifies pain, in an EDS body that already amplifies pain. I had to learn how to sleep without hyperextending my joints.

My back and neck hurt constantly, and I spent a lot of time popping things, which grossed out my peers. They were already grossed out by me so, whatever.

This kind of pain leads to a lot of dissociation, which makes perfect sense now, but at the time I thought I was going insane.

Suicidal Ideation

I thought about suicide all of the time. I prayed to be braver. I wished so badly that I knew how much of which chemicals to use. I fantasized about having access to a gentle poison that would simply cease the beating of my heart and filling of my lungs. I had been cutting for years, and I knew I lacked the audacity to just slit my wrists. I fantasized about it constantly, and kind of enjoyed the idea of the mess it would leave for my mom. There were loaded guns everywhere, but I didn’t dare touch them. I would never be forgiven for giving the Left an argument to take guns away.

Scared Straight

Mom said that she wished she could have afforded to put me into one of those Scared Straight programs

In the 90s, these programs were relatively new. Mom had heard of them, on shows like Maury Povich, and she thoroughly embraced the concept of tough love.

If you’ve followed the discussion on Human Trafficking, it becomes pretty clear that teenage rebellion is a struggle against being indoctrinated. The patriarchy tasks parents of teens with making children who have had a free pass while they are learning, conform with society or be shoved to the margins. Parents understand that conforming, and conforming well, is essential to accessing resources necessary for survival.

These programs are designed to take children who struggle to give up their autonomy, and make them realize that their autonomy is the smaller price to pay.

(This is also the problem with ABA Therapy for Autistics. ABA focuses on making Autistics conform and mask better, instead of meeting their needs.)

Mom said they had “tools” that were illegal for her to use as a parent, because she wasn’t abusive.

Borderline Personality Disorder

She had talked occasionally about having me committed. I knew from taking psychology that my diagnosis would be borderline personality disorder.

It’s interesting to listen to the gaslighting. The Cult of the Ego will never say, “abused teen girls struggling with the absence of autonomy,” so it says “Borderline Personality Disorder.”

(Spoiler Alert: DBT works, because it tells people with BPD that they should get to be people too.)

I didn’t want to be committed. I knew I’d never get out. I also understood that being trapped inside the psych ward was a matter of who controlled the narrative. I’d heard that if you check yourself in, you can check yourself out.

That part seemed important.

Risky

My risky behaviors were scaring me. It was like I was there, enjoying every second of my guilty pleasures, and at the same time I was watching the whole thing frozen in horror. Shortly after each transgression, I would integrate and be mortified. I felt ashamed and empowered, and confused by the duality.

Shame, empowerment, and confusion are emotions, and what did I do with my emotions?

I ATE THEM. (Unfortunately, I hadn’t saved up much from my minimum wage jobs, because it all went to junk food.)

Help

I was almost 18, and I didn’t want this to be my forever. I wanted help. There was supposed to be help.

I had been called into my guidance counselor’s office to talk about my attendance. She asked me what I was doing during that time. I needed help, not punishment. If I told her I was having sex, it would take me down the punishment path.

I told her I didn’t know. I told her I had been blacking out. I have felt guilty about misrepresenting my behavior for 28 years. It was really confusing, because I didn’t actually feel guilty for the sex, I felt guilty for failing my position in the world. I felt guilty of evoking the shame and judgement in others. I felt guilty for needing help. I felt guilty for being broken.

It was awful that the thing that I was supposed to feel guilty about was the thing that felt good. Why couldn’t I just get hit by a truck?

She interrogated me. I was asked to recount every detail I could. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. I didn’t want my mess getting on anybody else. She asked so many questions.

She asked about abuse- I lied. I didn’t know I was lying at the time. I really thought that my mother was not abusive and I was just walking refuse. (Not refuse– refuse)

It’s hard trying to be honest when you don’t know what the truth is. By the end of it, I had divulged my sexual behaviors, and in explaining where they began, I talked about my brother.

This was supposed to be a safe space. It’s not. It was a mandatory reporting space. They informed my mother and the authorities. I would have to go make a statement to the police the following day about my brother.

Home

Mom was there when I got home. The door was already off of the girls’ former bedroom, where I had been sleeping. She met me at the door with an open hand. Mom’s open hand was like a brick across my face. It didn’t sting like a slap, it rocked my spinal column.

She was screaming and pinning me, shoving me around the house, while she told me what a slut I was. She said she was glad that Daddy didn’t have to see me turn into a whore. She asked me why I decided to be a lying little bitch, and told me she would destroy me before I destroyed her family.

Her Family.

That was it. She drew the line and placed me on the other side.

She promised she was going to find a program to put me in, she just needed to find the right one.

Just a Little Mental Break- Again

Weaving the Strands Together

You might have wondered why I started writing this series. There’s certainly plenty to talk about here, but why now?

We just moved a few months ago, into our forever home. I have dreamed of stable housing my entire adult life. I’m disabled, and morbidly obese, and that process really pushed me to my limits.

I was trying to recuperate spoons, and decided to watch a Netflix documentary. You might have noticed I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

It’s been 27 years since I left home, and there are things that my brain had buried over the years. I always told people that I left home because things came out about some childhood sexual abuse, and it got ugly.

As I got older, the details of me leaving home mattered less to others, and I didn’t have to perform that script anymore. Why would I ever think about it while I’m trying to survive out here?

As I was writing yesterday’s post, my brain kept turning off. I had to keep pulling myself out of it, and forcing myself to focus. My brain tried everything to get me to drop it, to just leave, to put it down.

I have cried through a lot of these posts, but this was different. It’s like the way my eyes instantly look away from a screen if I don’t have my blue blocker glasses on. I finished it by force, then went and slept for another 6 1/2 hours, after having already slept all night. I feel exhausted as I wake up and write this one.

I’m not ok. This is why I’m not ok.

Victim/Suspect

I was enjoying some much-needed together time with my partner. I’ve never steered away from difficult topics. It’s more like I’ve adorned myself with them, so I selected Victim/Suspect on Netflix.

As I was watching, it all came back to me, and all of the terror in it that I had suppressed.

My next posts will detail the events of my leaving home. I just wanted you to know what happened to launch this.

I also want to thank you for facing this with me. I realize now that my experience isn’t all that unusual. That’s horrifying.

ALL of these officers are predators that protect The Cult of the Ego, despite how the law is structured. How is it that they know how to share this script even across countries?

This documentary opened me like a chasm, and I couldn’t shove it back down. I was trying to, and almost treading water, until I watched The Curious Case of Natalia Grace.

I started connecting so many dots. Things were falling apart and together in my head faster than I could keep up with, much less try to communicate to those around me, who had no idea. Well, they had some idea, but probably not THIS idea.

I’ve spent the last 69 posts trying to explain THIS idea.

Perfect Storm- A and C and K and Me

Note: Originally, I had scheduled this post to be available only to paid members, due to the level of trauma, and how much it still affects me. As I sit here thinking about it, the night before it should post, I realize that this pain is important to share.

A Tumultuous Week

I felt very completely out of options.

My entire family was seething. My favorite aunt called to tell me how ashamed she was of me, and ask me what the hell had happened to me. She wanted to know what happened to “that little girl who was the light of lives for many years.” (I had just told what happened. Wasn’t that why everything was blowing up?)

My cousin came over, which she rarely did, to threaten me. She told me if I didn’t clear my brother she would beat the shit out of me. She had the temperament of a Tasmanian devil and I believed she could dismember me with her bare hands if she was mad enough. (I still feel so uneasy any time I talk about her. Writing this paragraph I had a distinct urge to cut, which I haven’t felt compelled to do in decades. I’m not in danger, and I’m not going to do it, but I DO think it’s worth noting how my brain and nervous system are handling this.)

Just a Hop to the Cop Shop

Mom said that I had to go make a statement at the police station. She drove me there, where she waited impatiently with my sisters. On the drive there she repeatedly reiterated that I was a liar who was just trying to destroy her family. She continued to make threats about youth programs and psych wards. She also made sure I knew that she couldn’t afford that because we didn’t have insurance and she worked for Grandpa. She told me I was taking food out of the girls’ mouths and clothes off of their backs.

A guy came and got me, and took me to a room with glass windows on all sides, and the blinds pulled down so nobody could see in. He told me I could have a seat, and spoke in hushed gentle tones.

I wanted to find my way through this. I wanted something other than what my teenage years had become. I wanted the trauma and confusion to end. I believed that telling the truth would still get me the help I needed, and that sorting through the truth could maybe heal us all.

I believed I just had to be brave enough. I steeled my resolve.

Another male officer joined us, which didn’t seem at all odd, because women were still barely allowed on police forces back then, and lots of control was still being exercised over what departments and levels of promotion were accessible to women.

Mom always said it was a man’s world.

They both assumed receptive postures, and asked me to recount what I had told my counselor.

I told them about the road trip experimentation when I was 5. I told them about the sexual experimentation later with my brother.

I didn’t blame either of them, or my other cousins, or my brother’s friends. I really didn’t think they had done anything that wrong, I just though I was messed up and needed help. I didn’t want to lie, but I was very clear about not wanting anybody to be in trouble.

I did not tell them how scary my brother could be. I was trying to clear him.

I did not tell them that he would spend hours asking me to blow him until I consented. I did not tell them about all of the times he would pin me down so I couldn’t move. I didn’t tell them how much he liked to shove me. (“What? It’s not like I hit you. Shut up.”) I did not tell them that it continued after he came home from the Navy.

They said if that was true, they were going to have to press charges. They told me how serious those charges were, and how that would affect my brother in very real ways. They told me how it could affect his employment or housing later on. They told me he’d have to register as a sex offender.

Someone came to check on us, because my mom was wondering how much longer it was going to take.

I told them again what had happened, trying this time to somehow be clearer about how it started when he was just a kid too. I told them I was just as culpable, because I had sent messages too. I had asked for it sometimes.

They told me I was just lying to get my brother into trouble.

It took hours. I stood my ground because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. I thought it was the right thing to do.

I regretted deeply that I had said anything to my counselor. I regretted going back to school. I regretted being born. I regretted being a slut. I regretted being filth.

I just wanted it to stop. Everything was spiraling so far out of control.

They told me if I just admitted that I was lying, I could go home. They would not accept any version of the truth, and I had run out of resolve.

The words “I made it up,” came out of my mouth as a whisper. I couldn’t believe I was saying it. I wanted to die. It broke open something inside of me. I felt so betrayed, and I felt betrayed by myself.

How would I ever forgive this?

They made me repeat it, several times, saying they couldn’t hear me.

“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to be louder.”

“I made it all up.” I dissociated. I wanted so badly for this to just be a bad dream. Please, please, please let me wake up. Please.

They feigned disbelief. They asked me why I had put everybody through that. They told me I was making it harder for them to believe real victims. I was not a real victim. I was a monster.

How could I waste their time like that? How could I waste the time of everyone at the school? Did I even know how much paperwork I was causing?

… And to do something like this to my own brother, my own flesh and blood.

Didn’t I know that my mom and my sisters had to put everything on hold to sit there waiting on me?

Who did I think I was?

They were going to have to decide whether or not to charge me with false reporting. False reporting is a serious crime.

They told me to grab my things and I followed them back to the lobby. They took my mom to the side and I couldn’t make out what was being said but I could see her rage and seethe as they filled her in and my sisters told me what they thought of having to spend the whole day there.

Home

Nobody spoke on the way home.

Mom bathed me in her silence, flaring her nostrils, and forcing her breaths.

When we got to the house, Mom took off her glasses.

I wish I had some way of describing how strong my mom was.

She beat me until she couldn’t anymore. It wasn’t just hitting. She favored screamed vitriol punctuated by slaps across the head. Not face- Head. She liked to grab, and shove me around off balance. It terrorizes without leaving any marks. She was smart like that. She’d shove me down, then yell at me to get up. She’d scream a question at me, and if I answered she’d say “Don’t you dare talk to me.” If I didn’t answer she would scream “answer me,” punctuated by more slaps.

“I haven’t even hit you yet. You’ll KNOW if I hit you. I’ve NEVER hit you.”

I needed a cigarette so bad, but I wasn’t even allowed to pee or shower with the door closed anymore.

Going Through Motions

I went to school the next day, but didn’t go to class. It just seemed so ludicrous to sit in a chair and learn anything like it mattered. Nothing mattered.

I went to work after school, and arrived early.

The events of the week had caused a toothache to flair, and as much as my heart and body were hurting, that was hurting more. I was completely broke, so I went to the King Soopers next to the Kmart where I worked and I pocketed a bottle of Aleve, and a pack of cigarettes (a Marlboro 25 pack so it’d be worth it).

I had become quite a kleptomaniac in high school. Working part time at minimum wage doesn’t go very far. When I was at my peak, I could walk out of Kmart with 5 cartons of cigarettes. Of course, that was back before they locked them all up. It was much harder after that.

It was really very inconvenient that they locked them all up like that.

I got busted. The store cop took me upstairs to call the COPcops. She thought it was a curious mix of items, and asked me why. I told her the light version. She said I could go if I promised not to do that in her store again.

I thanked her from the bottom of my heart, and made it to work only 5 minutes late. I told my coworker why I was late, and she bummed me a cigarette and told me to go smoke it.

I was pretty numb as I stood there outside of the store, just trying to calm my nerves. A walked by.

A- A Ray of Hope

Do you remember A? A had been my boyfriend when I had run away from home, back before the truck driver.

Somehow in my dazed stupor I recognized him and hollered at him. He was thrilled to run back into me.

We caught up very quickly and I explained a cliffs notes version of what was going on.

He said “we gotta get you out of there.”

I agreed.

We decided to meet the following morning near the school to make a plan.

When I got home from work that night, Mom was already asleep. I packed what I could into an oversized grey shopping bag- the kind Cloth World used to use for upholstery sales. I think Kmart used to use them during the holidays as well.

I planned and plotted and barely slept.

The next day, which happened to be the day before my 18th birthday, A showed up and C was with him. It was so nice to see friendly faces.

They were accompanied by a smoker friend of mine (K) who hadn’t been around for several weeks. I didn’t even know they knew each other.

K was a tiny little thing in her sophomore year. Her parents had been dead for a long time, but when her Grandmother died there was nobody left to take her so they put her in a group home. (That explains how she knew A).

A explained that it was the roughest group home he knew of. They had placed K on lockdown and taken all of her privileges over malarky. It wasn’t just me anymore, and K and I fell into a very Mammy/Wain type of relationship very quickly.

We decided that we were leaving town. A was living with his dad, but didn’t really want to be there.

C wanted to go with us, but his car needed some part, so he was handling that the same day.

We spent the day just hanging out and planning. It felt so good to have others choosing something with me. It felt so freeing.

I truly believed that if I left town, my family would be ok. I thought I was the problem. I didn’t want them to charge my brother, and I couldn’t bear Mom blaming me for it, and punishing me for it. I really believed that if I left, they would have to drop the charges, and that maybe if I could carry that injustice, I could set right how wrong I’d been.

They’d blame me. They’d hate me. They would weave a narrative of the legend of how horrible I was, but it would end.

I needed it to end.

That evening, when I couldn’t put it off anymore, I had A park at the end of the street that Ts into my mom’s house. There’s a hill, so you can’t see the other side from her place.

Mom was in the kitchen, and my sisters started in on me the second I opened the door. I had to act fast.

I grabbed my things, did a final sweep, kissed them each on the head, and took my key to the kitchen to give to Mom.

She asked where I was going.

I said I didn’t know.

She didn’t say much, and didn’t try to stop me. She just shook her head in disappointment.

I headed for A’s truck as fast as my feet could carry me.

Anywhere But Here- No Looking Back

Financial Literacy

My high school didn’t teach financial literacy.

They thought they were pretty progressive by allowing girls to take shop, and allowing boys to take home economics. In home economics, I learned how to sew a frog made of felt and stuffed with beans using a sewing machine. I learned how to hand sew a pillow, stuffed with fluff. I learned how to bake 2 kinds of cookies (and learned the importance of cookie size as our full-sheet sized cookie became a disaster. I learned how to cook an Italian sandwich that is still my eldest’s favorite. I learned how to clean a room from top to bottom including the correct way to scrub ceilings, walls, and floors. I learned how to vacuum and shampoo carpet. I learned how to clean drapes, and load a dishwasher. I learned how to organize and clean a refrigerator.

I did not learn anything in home economics about economics.

I’m not sure I would have taken a financial literacy course if they had offered it. It wasn’t something “important.”

I was never taught how to pay bills, or budget my money. With the exception of Brocade, no one had ever taught me anything about grocery shopping or stretching a buck. I wasn’t taken to work with Mom and Grandpa the way my brother and cousins were.

They treated me accessing money like something cute that women get to do now. It wasn’t something I had a right to, and nobody ever suggested that I would be supporting myself, or discussed how to access more than the bare minimum. I was taught in constant reinforcements that I didn’t deserve anything more than the bare minimum.

Nobody taught me how to ask for a raise, and I didn’t learn about resumes and interviews until much later. I just filled out applications with precise honesty, and hoped for the best. Back then, I thought they really called your references and would get access to your high school transcripts.

I had asked several times to get a bank account, and Mom told me I didn’t deserve one. I couldn’t be trusted with one. She wasn’t going to have her name on it with me.

I was never taught about saving or long term money management strategies.

The way I was raised, I could either hope to make some man love me, or stay with the family and they’d have to support me. That was their plan all along. I was never supposed to leave.

Happy Birthday to Me

The sense of relief upon leaving my mom’s house was immediate. The girls yelled out the door after me, and I felt so guilty for leaving them, but they didn’t really want me there either. They just didn’t know any better.

I got to the truck, threw my big bag in the back, and my backpack up front with us.

I was Free.

If I died 10 minutes from the, I will have died free.

I needed a complete do over, or it would all suck me in, and destroy everything.

At midnight, I bought my first legal pack of cigarettes. A and I slept in the truck that night. It was pretty uncomfortable, but I did not care. There was a shoulder to lay my head on, that actually wanted me there.

A is probably one of the purest souls I’ve ever known. He really just wanted good things for people. His parents were junkies, so nobody had ever really invested in him. He was never working an angle. He was never out to get anyone. He really just wanted to help.

I’ve always been grateful, but I don’t think I realized until right now what a gift that was.

The next morning we caught up with C, and waited at the school for K to get there. I was so nervous for her. There was a chance they wouldn’t let her come to school today.

I had to get out, but I had to get her out too.

I worked on smoking those cigarettes I had purchased hours before while we waited and caught up. Really, C was just as kindhearted as A. It felt like I entered a whole different world where people were good enough the way they were.

K was taking a while to show up, which made us pretty nervous. I decided to make a quick appearance in my sociology class to say goodbye. My teacher cried, and strangely, the class acted like they were really going to miss me. Most of them were cool kids that wouldn’t have given me the time of day before that.

I had really let my freak flag fly that semester because my teacher encouraged it so much. I’d sing a song for us to start class with each day, and they all asked for a final song of the day before I jetted.

I sang Shania Twain’s “Rock This Country,” and that was it.

I didn’t think I could feel freer than when I walked out of my house, but leaving school lightened a whole other load from my shoulders. It’s still a double edged sword though. To this day, I still have nightmares about dropping out of school, and reenrolling just to fail again. It’s a theme I revisit 4-5 times per week.

K finally made her appearance. There had been a lock down at the group home that morning, but it wasn’t about her. I was so relieved. We were together now. It felt safer, more whole.

We were very busy that day getting the cars ready, grabbing my paycheck, and getting my learner’s permit.

Mom had refused to teach me how to drive. She said driving was a privilege and I had never earned it. In adults, this would be seen as coercive control, but as my mom was fond of pointing out, nobody’s a person until they are 18.

We stopped to grab a cooler, and some essentials (Dr. Pepper), and we took off, with just my paycheck.

We decided that we were going to go to Grand Junction. I don’t remember why we settled on that, but A liked Grand Junction, and I just wanted to get as far away as possible.

Go To Recent Posts
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Learn About Systemic Revictimization
Learn About Food Addiction
Learn About The Weaponization of the Benign and Beneficial
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Learn About Ehlers Danlos Syndrome and Hypermobility
Learn About My Struggle Toward Diagnosis and Care
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