Jul 11, 2021
My Therapist Said I Should Be a Crack Whore
He probably didn’t use those words exactly, but that’s what I heard.
I had a rough start. I can only tell you the way I remember it. Like, if I were hooked up to a lie detector, they would detect no lie. But other people may have a different way of telling these events.
Shrug. Anyway, it’s my story to tell.
“Have you ever seen a plastic grocery bag on the side of the highway? Dirty and worn. Empty and lifeless. Tossed about by the wooosh of each passing vehicle. That’s kind of how I felt…I could feel the cold wind blowing through my gut.”
The way I understand it, my mom was alone in the hospital when I was born. Things did not go well; I’m lucky to be here. My dad was out. Partying? Possible. But he wasn’t with my mom. Nor was he around for the next nine years or so. Not much anyway.
My mom didn’t have strong parenting skills. She loves me fiercely. That’s good news. But she could only impart what she knew… so I experienced formative years with a significant amount of substance abuse and domestic violence, molestation and neglect. Trauma.
I learned early not to listen to my intuition, grown-ups weren’t safe, and my body was a commodity. If you know, you know; I’m not telling the gory details here.
Circumstances being what they were, I developed some emotional armor and a few maladaptive coping skills to keep myself safe. I started getting high and drinking pretty young.
I was good at school, so I stuck around. Starved for positive attention, I hovered around teachers who taught me a few words in French, sang songs with me during passing periods, and taught me to question authority. I’ve always been a good reader and writer. I remember a journalism instructor who didn’t follow the rules. I really admired her.
But the pull of the party was strong… and young girls who drink, often find themselves in sordid situations with unsavory people. I got into cars with boys I didn’t know far too many times. I’m really lucky to be alive.
And the incomprehensible demoralization that comes from those car rides… well… I had to drink some more to endure it.
I tried college after high school, but I couldn’t wrap my brain around the amount of work that had to be done, and I couldn’t seem to fit it in amongst the episodes of partying. My parents didn’t get much education to speak of, and no one seemed to care if I stayed or went, so I quit.
I drank to projectile vomiting and had sex with a few more people I didn’t want to have sex with. At this point, I had no moral compass. I cheated on my boyfriend and got let go from my job. It seemed like a good idea to move 400 miles away.
I found another guy I was interested in, and another. I pretzeled myself into exactly who I thought they wanted me to be. I didn’t have an opinion of my own. My feelings were pretty well locked up. I was good at loud, wild sex; that I knew. It didn’t occur to me that anything else would matter.
Have you ever seen a plastic grocery bag on the side of the highway? Dirty and worn. Empty and lifeless. Tossed about by the wooosh of each passing vehicle. That’s kind of how I felt. I went where others wanted me to go. I did what others wanted me to do. I didn’t have any hobbies or interests. Not really. I could feel the cold wind blowing through my gut.
Then, somewhat suddenly, I realized I am gay. Ha! (My coming out story is an entirely different post.) Suffice to say, my drinking escalated. I started going to bars where other drinking lesbians proliferated. I didn’t know how to talk to people; I had no ideas of my own. Since my value lied in my ability to seduce men, I was a bit at a loss.
I would arrive and drink, terrified to speak to anyone, and drive home drunk. Even when I promised myself that today I would not go out, I would still find myself at the bar. Out. Drinking. Driving.
Or I had the occasional dinner party and invited some people I wanted to impress. But inevitably I was rude to a guest or made crappy food or spilled wine on the carpet. I can’t remember if people stopped coming or if I stopped inviting them first.
I did have some people I drank with regularly. One of them passed out a lot or got violent in public. She was the designated problem, so I didn’t have to look at my own bad behavior. Until she got sober. And a few months later, I followed her to that 12-step program.
What do you want to know now? I have so many writing ideas. Pick one and leave it in the comments below.
- My coming out story
- How I got sober
- What are these feeeeeelings?
- Recovering from the pain of my childhood
- Therapy: lying and healing
- Smiling as armor
- Falling in love
- Taking hostages
- Making a gay family, separation, co-parenting
- How I developed an opinion and an attitude, #notsorry
- Continued sobriety and being of service to women
- Friendship
- Ignoring red flags
- Learning who I am and taking up space
- Taking responsibility
- Finding forgiveness
- Self-love
- Healthy, kinky, freaky sex
- Empowerment through BDSM
- How to be the Queen
- Knowing which exes are worth climbing the friendship wall for
- Repairing my relationship with Me
- Inner knowing
- Advocacy, Anti-racism, and social justice
- Fuck the status quo and follow my passion
DAWN DAVIS
CONFIDENCE COACH
I Help Women Build Unapologetic Confidence
In Their Bodies, Bedrooms, and Beyond!
