She grew up in a rather disturbed family. Her mother was a kleptomaniac; her father hardly spoke a word. She was a shy little girl. Friends were a dream. Her brother starting selling drugs when he was fifteen, with the mothers blessing. Her sisterwell, she was a bit eccentric. She had no idea what that would evolve into. She needed a place to hide. She could not find peace in that home, so she hid inside herself. At fourteen, she allowed recreational drugs to help live beneath a veil. Her mother the found marijuana, the mother gave it to the son: to smoke. Weeks later, unknowingly smoking angel dust put her in the hospital for months. All of her drug friends were gone. She was alone again.

She dated; one person at a time. She thought she was in love with each of them. That led to many puppy love broken hearts. If she knew what was in store for her, she would have appreciated those types of sorrows. At sixteen, she dated a man who was twenty-three, with her mothers approval. Her mother was kind and caring enough to assist her in getting birth control pills. That man left the young girl, and her heart broke once again.

She filled her time with daydreams. She prayed for a magical power to whisk her away. Her brother decided to have his girlfriend live in the house. Each night, she would walk the hallway and hear the girlfriends screams. He was beating the girl again. She begged her father to intervene. He did not.

She left home at eighteen, just days after turning to that sweet age of freedom. She met the love of her life. They were homeless after a month. Roaming the streets of the city, hugging each other to stay warm, she felt loved for once. Free food at the shelter, one-day work found deep in the city; they were able to afford an apartment. In that apartment, it began. The yelling came first. Avoiding the objects thrown at her, came next. The broken arm came after that. She begged her parents to let her come back home. The answer was no.

Her lover insisted on unprotected sex, she was helpless to deny him. She gave birth to her first daughter when she was twenty. She married that man while pregnant, to create a real family. The severe beatings began soon after her second daughter was born. Crumbs found under the microwave, she forgot to check there. She was a bloody mess after that; one tooth was gone now.

Her daughter ran to help her, her husband threw the little girl into a wall. She left him the next day. There was no destination; no money. She was grateful for the battered womans shelter she found. She divorced him. Little by little, she worked her way into a semi-normal life. She loved her children. Cramped into their tiny one bedroom apartment did not matter, she was free now. That is what she thought. However, freedom is not easy when its your mind that is keeping you prisoner.

Five years went by. Her children grew so big. No contact with her loving parents: no need for that. She remembered the last time she spoke to her mother; the mothers last words being, I wish I never had children. Struggling with the bills, her children came first. Serving them well-cooked meals, and then eating english muffins for her own dinner became the norm.

She worked as a waitress, she was limited with her education and her desire to spend time with her daughters. Over those five years of freedom, she dated; one person at a time. She fell in love with each one of them. It was not puppy love anymore. She discovered what real pain and sorrow was, as each man tore at her heart.

She began to experience depressions. She had no idea she was experiencing hypo- manic episodes too. She thought she was creative, staying up three nights in a row to design and sew her own clothes. When the mood struck her, she would not stop until her project was complete. Papers scattered across all of the rooms; designs she scribbled; endlessly, searching for the one that would satisfy her. Satin and silk; hiding the old linoleum floors. She had so much energy, she was proud of herself. However, those periods were sprinkled with deep, dark plunges into Hell. She drank to erase the distress. She took pain pills to beat the depressions. She began to get panic attacks. Her doctor helped her with that, Thank God for Xanax, she would say.

She got a phone call one day. It was her father. He spoke this day. Her sister had died, having overdosed on heroin. She dropped to her knees. She screamed in anguish. Her father said, I didnt think you would care so much. She loved her sister, her sister who was diagnosed with bi-polar. She was afraid of this disease; terrified of it. She hated watching it strip her sisters life away. She told herself she was lucky she did not have this disease in her blood.. She told herself that, as she laid out sheets of material across the rooms.

One man, one special man came into her life. She never experienced love like that before; two years of bliss. He dealt with her mood swings. He asked her to marry him. She was elated; her dreams were coming true. He left her, he left her in a swirl of lies that sent her into one of the deepest depressions she ever had. She did not tell her doctor, she could not leave her children, and he would send her away if he knew that she started cutting herself.

She had a great thought. If all the men in her life only wanted sex, if that was their motivation for being with her; why should she allow men to have her body without giving anything in return? Her credit cards were to the limit. Her daughters getting bigger every day; new clothes had to be bought. Field trips, lunch money, it would only increase as the years went by.

She called an agency. She met the owner; a woman, she could trust that. She would get drunk before she left. She would bring her bottles of liquor into the various hotel rooms and offices. She made her mind go blank as the men took her body. She would close her eyes and calculate how much money she was receiving for each minute that a strange man would violate her. She felt proud in a way; these men thought she was beautiful. She was wanted. They actually paid for her company. Her therapist told her she was taking control of her life; he gave her a pat on the back. Oh, yes, she was proud.

She was raped; in an elegant hotel. She told the man his time was over; he wanted more. She tried to get away. He overtook her. She could not call the police. Would she tell them, that a client raped her? She cried as she tried to wash off the filth that man put inside of her. She vowed never to be a call girl again.

Two weeks later, when the rent was due, she called the agency. One week after that, she was in jail. A friend, police officer, he cut through the red tape; the charges were erased. She left the agency for good: never to return. Why would she? She had made enough money to last her quite a while. Besides, she had plenty to do, with all of the cutting, and sewing and the nights of soaking her pillow with her tears.