I will preface this by saying that we were evicted from every place we ever lived.
Bruce was a con artist. He could talk anyone into anything. I still didn’t have a license and we were now living in the duplex. I had been stripping for a little less than a year. I had put up with so many lies, the emotional torment was coming to an end. I had been in contact with my family, letting them in on my shameful secrets. I was doing the absolute best that I could raising my son, working as a dancer, faking my marriage.
Bruce always maintained connections with the church. They would take collection and pay our electric bill or our water bill. I refused to lie. I refused to go to church. I was selling myself onstage. Why lie? I remember going to the pastor once and telling him everything. I think I confused him with confession. This would come back to bite me in the ass later. Somehow, someway we all ended up back in Florida. I wish I could tell you I remember everything but I don’t. It is in my head like a roladex on speed.
It flashes before my eyes in spurts, blasts, fragments. I piece it together as best I can and document when it strikes me. Tonight for some reason, it is striking me hard. Maybe it’s the grief I’m feeling tonight, maybe it’s the vodka, the sad music, the need to be heard. I have no idea.
It’s just here and I am alone.