The most troubling aspect of my relationship with Conspiracy was that my thoughts and beliefs were colored by his, almost to the point they stopped being my own. Conspiracy influenced not just minor decisions, but major ones, such as my outright refusal to join a secret society.
One of the first notions Conspiracy filled my head with was the idea that secret societies were evil, satanic, white-male cults that ran the world badly. Conspiracy ran down the list of recent U.S. presidents and vice presidents, pointing out that every single administration had ties to either Yale or Harvard. As an added flourish, he named which secret society each of the various men was linked to.
Skull and Bones, Yale's most prestigious secret society, received special scorn. Conspiracy described it as a "bunch of punks sucking on Geronimo's skull," regaling me with the tale of how George H.W. Bush's father allegedly dug up the Native American leader's body and brought the stolen remains to New Haven.
It didn't help that the secret societies referred to their buildings as "tombs." The more prestigious groups had huge, imposing, windowless buildings that were said to house great luxury and hide strange rituals.
A few of my upperclassmate friends had been tapped by secret societies, and had shared some of the secrets with me. One of my roommates described holding hands with her fellow society members outside their tomb and singing to the building in a foreign tongue. Another muttered sourly that his society, which featured a swimming pool in the basement, was overrated and that he hated the Sunday-night get-togethers. Still another told me the breathless story of how someone put a hood over her head while the members of the society hissed like snakes.
It all seemed like devil worship to me. Being Catholic and half-Creole, I tended to be very superstitious. My association with Dollar the Psychic had made those tendencies even worse.
And so it was, in the spring of my junior year, that the phone rang. It was a young woman's voice, inviting me to be tapped into the secret society that was casually known as the "people of color" society. It wasn't specifically an African-American group, but it was known to be more inclusive than the others.
I immediately heard Dollar's voice in my ear. She had recently done a tarot reading for me, in which she predicted that "someone was going to call me and try to pressure me into doing something I didn't want to do."
In a rude tone of voice, with Conspiracy hovering over my shoulder and Dollar living in my head, I told the caller that I wasn't interested. I didn't consider joining, not even for a split second. I could feel the society representative's disappointment and puzzlement as she hung up.
At the time, I didn't know that getting tapped by secret societies was the primary reason that many students chose Yale. I didn't consider that having valuable access to the world's movers and shakers was not inherently evil. I didn't understand that maybe, just maybe, joining that society might ease my transition into the working world.
I let Conspiracy (and Dollar) do my thinking for me.
And because I let them think for me, I will never know if I made the right choice.
Showing posts with label Abusive Psychic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Abusive Psychic. Show all posts
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Monday, September 20, 2010
Chump Change
From my point of view, the first chink in my relationship with Conspiracy Theory appeared the first time we made love, when he tricked me into his bed. But from his perspective, the first chink in our relationship appeared months later, when, in his words, I "tried to chump him."
He was right. I did try to chump him.
But my intentions were pure. Or as pure as they can be when they are driven by fear.
You see, I was about one year into my relationship with Dollar, the abusive psychic. She had recently eloped. I sent her off to her new life in New Jersey with a hug, a greeting card and a small amount of cash. It was the closest thing she had to a bridal shower, because she literally ran away from home without her family's blessing.
As soon as she got married, her demands for money increased exponentially. Every time the phone rang, she was on the other end, asking for $200 or $300 or whatever amount she claimed was required to wash away whatever new affliction she claimed I was cursed with.
I seethed with anger. It wasn't lost on me that she was asking for more and more money, and I blamed her new husband. He must be putting her up to it.
Then, I would push those thoughts aside. She was my friend. Surely she couldn't be ripping me off. And what would happen if I didn't do as she asked? She would speak in this dire, spooky voice about how bad my life would be if the Spirits didn't get what they needed. Consequently, I would give her whatever money I had or take out a credit-card cash advance.
She wanted $500. I didn't have it, and I couldn't charge it. I can't remember what the curse was this particular time. On one occasion, the curse was that my mother would die. Another time, my darling four-year-old foster niece was in jeopardy.
"Your boyfriend has the money. Ask him for it."
Afraid of whatever dark dilemma she prophesied, I did.
Conspiracy didn't cuss me out. But he didn't give me $500, either.
I lied to him regarding what it was for, something Dollar probably coached me on beforehand.
Conspiracy wasn't having it. He was firm in his no, and he didn't make a big scene about it. But now he secretly saw me as a gold-digging predator, the same way that I secretly saw him as a liar I couldn't completely trust.
He was right. I did try to chump him.
But my intentions were pure. Or as pure as they can be when they are driven by fear.
You see, I was about one year into my relationship with Dollar, the abusive psychic. She had recently eloped. I sent her off to her new life in New Jersey with a hug, a greeting card and a small amount of cash. It was the closest thing she had to a bridal shower, because she literally ran away from home without her family's blessing.
As soon as she got married, her demands for money increased exponentially. Every time the phone rang, she was on the other end, asking for $200 or $300 or whatever amount she claimed was required to wash away whatever new affliction she claimed I was cursed with.
I seethed with anger. It wasn't lost on me that she was asking for more and more money, and I blamed her new husband. He must be putting her up to it.
Then, I would push those thoughts aside. She was my friend. Surely she couldn't be ripping me off. And what would happen if I didn't do as she asked? She would speak in this dire, spooky voice about how bad my life would be if the Spirits didn't get what they needed. Consequently, I would give her whatever money I had or take out a credit-card cash advance.
She wanted $500. I didn't have it, and I couldn't charge it. I can't remember what the curse was this particular time. On one occasion, the curse was that my mother would die. Another time, my darling four-year-old foster niece was in jeopardy.
"Your boyfriend has the money. Ask him for it."
Afraid of whatever dark dilemma she prophesied, I did.
Conspiracy didn't cuss me out. But he didn't give me $500, either.
I lied to him regarding what it was for, something Dollar probably coached me on beforehand.
Conspiracy wasn't having it. He was firm in his no, and he didn't make a big scene about it. But now he secretly saw me as a gold-digging predator, the same way that I secretly saw him as a liar I couldn't completely trust.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Abusive Relationship
Within days of losing my virginity to Latin Muslim, the abuse began. It lasted nine years. It left thick, traumatic scars. It cost tens of thousands of dollars. And Latin Muslim wasn't the abuser.
The abuser wasn't even a man, and the relationship wasn't even sexual.
My abuser was a psychic.
I was in downtown New Haven, walking past the mall, when I was accosted by a girl selling fake roses. At first, I ignored her.
"You, stop! No, you, stop!" That command, uttered in a thick Brooklyn accent, was issued directly at me.
I turned around and faced a girl in a red coat. She was about my age. Thin. A woman of color, but of indeterminable ethnicity. She had piercing brown eyes and large ears that poked through her thin curtain of straight black hair.
Her name was Dollar, and for $10 she offered to read my palm.
She saw trouble.
But for $70, she would go light seven candles at Church for me, and pray all night for me, and all of my problems would be solved.
When Dollar finished lighting up the Church, she called me with the news. It wasn't the happy ending she'd initially promised. It was something more.
Something called Jealousy.
She interrogated me, with extreme gravity, about my parents. What position in the family was my dad? The oldest child. What position was I? The middle child. What about my mom? The middle child.
"Yes, that's it. It's coming from your mother."
My mother had been a victim of Jealousy, and that's why her life had never worked out right. That certainly rang true. My mom, a brilliant woman, the first of her family to go to college, had ended up marrying my dad and losing her mind. You couldn't get more star-crossed than that.
And now my mother's mysterious hex was being passed down to me because we were both middle children. But for $500, Dollar was going to dig up a graveyard, remove the curse and set everything right.
She referred to her mysterious and outlandish spiritual tasks as The Work, and like a child molester, she was very insistent that The Work must be kept secret. I could not talk to anyone about it – absolutely no one. In fact, I couldn't even write about it, not even in my diary. Because the Bad Spirits were everywhere, and we didn't want them interfering with The Work.
Did I buy it?
Yup.
Dollar knew things about me that she couldn't possibly have known, and she threw me little evidences of her Power.
She told me I'd know she had started The Work because I would dream about her, and sure enough, that night I had a vivid dream about her, laced with serpents and religious imagery. When Yale shut down for the Christmas break and I stayed at a friend's off-campus apartment, she called me there, even though I'd never given her the number. The Spirits had revealed my unlisted, temporary phone number to her.
That's how my long, twisted life with Dollar started. And initially, it wasn't all bad. She became my "friend." We hung out together. I got to know her entire family – mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins. And some of the "advice" she gave me over the years probably saved my life.
But ultimately, the relationship was about power, and not just the Magic Kind. Dollar terrorized me with veiled threats about all the dire things that would happen if I didn't come through with money for The Church (up to and including that my mom would get sick and die). Dollar verbally abused me, taking credit for everything good that happened in my life and blaming my "negativity" for everything that went wrong.
And I, like a gambler, kept paying and paying and paying because I didn't want to believe that I'd been so thoroughly had. Dollar became the thread that ran through all of my sexual relationships, from Latin Muslim when I was 19, all the way to Brown, when I was 28.
The abuser wasn't even a man, and the relationship wasn't even sexual.
My abuser was a psychic.
I was in downtown New Haven, walking past the mall, when I was accosted by a girl selling fake roses. At first, I ignored her.
"You, stop! No, you, stop!" That command, uttered in a thick Brooklyn accent, was issued directly at me.
I turned around and faced a girl in a red coat. She was about my age. Thin. A woman of color, but of indeterminable ethnicity. She had piercing brown eyes and large ears that poked through her thin curtain of straight black hair.
Her name was Dollar, and for $10 she offered to read my palm.
She saw trouble.
But for $70, she would go light seven candles at Church for me, and pray all night for me, and all of my problems would be solved.
When Dollar finished lighting up the Church, she called me with the news. It wasn't the happy ending she'd initially promised. It was something more.
Something called Jealousy.
She interrogated me, with extreme gravity, about my parents. What position in the family was my dad? The oldest child. What position was I? The middle child. What about my mom? The middle child.
"Yes, that's it. It's coming from your mother."
My mother had been a victim of Jealousy, and that's why her life had never worked out right. That certainly rang true. My mom, a brilliant woman, the first of her family to go to college, had ended up marrying my dad and losing her mind. You couldn't get more star-crossed than that.
And now my mother's mysterious hex was being passed down to me because we were both middle children. But for $500, Dollar was going to dig up a graveyard, remove the curse and set everything right.
She referred to her mysterious and outlandish spiritual tasks as The Work, and like a child molester, she was very insistent that The Work must be kept secret. I could not talk to anyone about it – absolutely no one. In fact, I couldn't even write about it, not even in my diary. Because the Bad Spirits were everywhere, and we didn't want them interfering with The Work.
Did I buy it?
Yup.
Dollar knew things about me that she couldn't possibly have known, and she threw me little evidences of her Power.
She told me I'd know she had started The Work because I would dream about her, and sure enough, that night I had a vivid dream about her, laced with serpents and religious imagery. When Yale shut down for the Christmas break and I stayed at a friend's off-campus apartment, she called me there, even though I'd never given her the number. The Spirits had revealed my unlisted, temporary phone number to her.
That's how my long, twisted life with Dollar started. And initially, it wasn't all bad. She became my "friend." We hung out together. I got to know her entire family – mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins. And some of the "advice" she gave me over the years probably saved my life.
But ultimately, the relationship was about power, and not just the Magic Kind. Dollar terrorized me with veiled threats about all the dire things that would happen if I didn't come through with money for The Church (up to and including that my mom would get sick and die). Dollar verbally abused me, taking credit for everything good that happened in my life and blaming my "negativity" for everything that went wrong.
And I, like a gambler, kept paying and paying and paying because I didn't want to believe that I'd been so thoroughly had. Dollar became the thread that ran through all of my sexual relationships, from Latin Muslim when I was 19, all the way to Brown, when I was 28.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Pillow Talk, Lunacy and the Elephant in the Room
I guess now is the time to admit that even though I made it to the third date before giving it up to Brown, our third date was only a week after our first.
Absolutely no shame, no apologies and no regrets.
As much as I wanted that man, and as much as he wanted me, three dates was a HUGE accomplishment.
But that's not to say that both of us didn't continue to wave red flags right underneath each other's noses.
It took Brown only three dates to discover that I was both promiscuous and emotionally needy. In the aftermath of our first night of passion – heart open, legs open, everything open – I proceeded to open my mouth, too. I spilled the beans about my recent casting-couch ordeal.
Major red flag for him.
But I was madly in love and didn't want there to be any secrets between us.
A few days later, he reciprocated by telling me something I didn't want to hear: A few days after the Vegas trip where we first met, he'd had a vasectomy.
I cried hysterically. Into the phone. Into the ears of the man I'd been dating for less than two weeks.
I told him how much I loved kids, how much I wanted to be a mother, how hurt I'd be if I were barren by default.
Another major red flag for him. It was lunacy – lunacy was one of Brown's favorite words – for a girl he'd just met to be crying like she'd just had a miscarriage because he didn't want to have any more children.
Too bad he didn't understand where the real lunacy lay. The lunacy wasn't that I was devastated, the lunacy was that I believed I could change his mind. I called my abusive psychic, who told me that vasectomies were reversible. I instantly felt better, and decided not to break up with him.
I didn't understand until years later, and I do mean years, that no man would willingly let a doctor snip away at the family jewels unless he really, truly, absolutely, positively, irreversibly did not want to have kids.
So Brown now had a pocketful of red flags, as did I.
But the truth was, Brown was just as smitten with me as I was with him.
Less than two weeks after we met, he was referring to me as "his girl," leaving daily messages on my machine that always began, "Hello, gorgeous," and even peppering our conversations with references to us eloping. He didn't want to end it any more than I did.
But for the rest of our relationship, the vasectomy would be the elephant in the room that we both tried in vain to tiptoe around.
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Absolutely no shame, no apologies and no regrets.
As much as I wanted that man, and as much as he wanted me, three dates was a HUGE accomplishment.
But that's not to say that both of us didn't continue to wave red flags right underneath each other's noses.
It took Brown only three dates to discover that I was both promiscuous and emotionally needy. In the aftermath of our first night of passion – heart open, legs open, everything open – I proceeded to open my mouth, too. I spilled the beans about my recent casting-couch ordeal.
Major red flag for him.
But I was madly in love and didn't want there to be any secrets between us.
A few days later, he reciprocated by telling me something I didn't want to hear: A few days after the Vegas trip where we first met, he'd had a vasectomy.
I cried hysterically. Into the phone. Into the ears of the man I'd been dating for less than two weeks.
I told him how much I loved kids, how much I wanted to be a mother, how hurt I'd be if I were barren by default.
Another major red flag for him. It was lunacy – lunacy was one of Brown's favorite words – for a girl he'd just met to be crying like she'd just had a miscarriage because he didn't want to have any more children.
Too bad he didn't understand where the real lunacy lay. The lunacy wasn't that I was devastated, the lunacy was that I believed I could change his mind. I called my abusive psychic, who told me that vasectomies were reversible. I instantly felt better, and decided not to break up with him.
I didn't understand until years later, and I do mean years, that no man would willingly let a doctor snip away at the family jewels unless he really, truly, absolutely, positively, irreversibly did not want to have kids.
So Brown now had a pocketful of red flags, as did I.
But the truth was, Brown was just as smitten with me as I was with him.
Less than two weeks after we met, he was referring to me as "his girl," leaving daily messages on my machine that always began, "Hello, gorgeous," and even peppering our conversations with references to us eloping. He didn't want to end it any more than I did.
But for the rest of our relationship, the vasectomy would be the elephant in the room that we both tried in vain to tiptoe around.
(Brown Diaries Part 4 of 18: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 | Lessons Learned 1-3: 1 2 3)
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Monday, January 5, 2009
A New Stripper Plan of Attack
The first person I called after my strip-club audition was my Hollywood talent manager, Stripper Pimp. Things hadn't exactly gone as planned. Yeah, I'd taken it all off and exited the stage without tripping, but I'd also left the club without a job offer.
Stripper Pimp was reassuring. Although I thought I detected a note of disappointment in his voice, he placidly assured me that it was normal for there to be a 7-10 day delay.
It sounded comforting, but I knew a so-so audition when I had one. I didn't blame my nonexistent dance skills. I blamed my poor little boobs. Maybe Stripper Pimp was right. Maybe I should consider plastic surgery.
My best friend from Detroit was reading my mind in between praying fervently that I wouldn't go directly to hell: "I just talked to Future Husband. He told me to tell you that if you get a boob job, there's a strong possibility that you might keloid."
I have to admit, the prospect of scarred boobs was almost enough to make me think. Almost.
Because the number-one topic on my mind was money. Just one week before, I'd done something unthinkable. I'd received a $6,400 settlement check from a recent car accident – enough to move out of my aunt's house and start a new life – and I'd secretly given $5,000 of it to a psychic.
My "psychic friend" had been abusing me, terrorizing me, controlling me and coercing me out of money for six long years. It's part of the reason I was so easily led by a guy like Stripper Pimp. I already had a long, strange history of being easily led. (And all these years later, I still can't fully explain why I was so willing to give all my power away. All I know for sure is that despite being intellectually gifted, I was a walking puddle of perpetual victimhood until about age 30.)
It was ok, I told myself. In a week or two, I'd be making $400 a night stripping. It hadn't occurred to me that I might not be good at it.
A couple days after my audition, after much anxious prodding from me, Stripper Pimp came clean: the club's response probably meant that they already had enough black girls. "They'll let a white girl come in there and learn, but they're not going to do that for you."
He had a new plan: "What do you think about dancing at a black club?"
Stripper Pimp never gave orders. He just calmly asked leading questions in a smooth, even-toned voice.
I thought the idea sounded about as appealing as crawling into a dark, dirty crack in a kitchen baseboard to comingle with cockroaches. The Barbary Coast had burned an image in my mind that I just couldn't shake: loud, rowdy n*ggas crumpling up dollar bills and aiming them at my crotch. I'd visited during the day. I couldn't begin to imagine that place at night.
"It's bad enough I'm gonna do it, but I'm not gonna do it in a place where I'll be disrespected," I protested.
But minutes later, I needed his reassurance: "Do you think I'll make more money in a black club than a white club?"
"Absolutely, or I wouldn't have suggested it." He explained that I would need to work a smaller club for a month or two to learn the ropes, then I could try one of the big white clubs again.
The club he suggested, the First King, was right across the street from the Barbary Coast. A former client of his used to dance there, he said. It was a "nice atmosphere" and she made $300-$400 a night.
I decided to drive by the First King after my Monday-night singing gig and just get a feel for the place. I found three police cars outside and a line of police tape stretching all the way around the building.
Uh ... not exactly a nice atmosphere, unless I wanted to get shot.
I immediately called Stripper Pimp, and he had a new suggestion. I should do an amateur night at a mixed club called Starz.
Stripper Pimp was reassuring. Although I thought I detected a note of disappointment in his voice, he placidly assured me that it was normal for there to be a 7-10 day delay.
It sounded comforting, but I knew a so-so audition when I had one. I didn't blame my nonexistent dance skills. I blamed my poor little boobs. Maybe Stripper Pimp was right. Maybe I should consider plastic surgery.
My best friend from Detroit was reading my mind in between praying fervently that I wouldn't go directly to hell: "I just talked to Future Husband. He told me to tell you that if you get a boob job, there's a strong possibility that you might keloid."
I have to admit, the prospect of scarred boobs was almost enough to make me think. Almost.
Because the number-one topic on my mind was money. Just one week before, I'd done something unthinkable. I'd received a $6,400 settlement check from a recent car accident – enough to move out of my aunt's house and start a new life – and I'd secretly given $5,000 of it to a psychic.
My "psychic friend" had been abusing me, terrorizing me, controlling me and coercing me out of money for six long years. It's part of the reason I was so easily led by a guy like Stripper Pimp. I already had a long, strange history of being easily led. (And all these years later, I still can't fully explain why I was so willing to give all my power away. All I know for sure is that despite being intellectually gifted, I was a walking puddle of perpetual victimhood until about age 30.)
It was ok, I told myself. In a week or two, I'd be making $400 a night stripping. It hadn't occurred to me that I might not be good at it.
A couple days after my audition, after much anxious prodding from me, Stripper Pimp came clean: the club's response probably meant that they already had enough black girls. "They'll let a white girl come in there and learn, but they're not going to do that for you."
He had a new plan: "What do you think about dancing at a black club?"
Stripper Pimp never gave orders. He just calmly asked leading questions in a smooth, even-toned voice.
I thought the idea sounded about as appealing as crawling into a dark, dirty crack in a kitchen baseboard to comingle with cockroaches. The Barbary Coast had burned an image in my mind that I just couldn't shake: loud, rowdy n*ggas crumpling up dollar bills and aiming them at my crotch. I'd visited during the day. I couldn't begin to imagine that place at night.
"It's bad enough I'm gonna do it, but I'm not gonna do it in a place where I'll be disrespected," I protested.
But minutes later, I needed his reassurance: "Do you think I'll make more money in a black club than a white club?"
"Absolutely, or I wouldn't have suggested it." He explained that I would need to work a smaller club for a month or two to learn the ropes, then I could try one of the big white clubs again.
The club he suggested, the First King, was right across the street from the Barbary Coast. A former client of his used to dance there, he said. It was a "nice atmosphere" and she made $300-$400 a night.
I decided to drive by the First King after my Monday-night singing gig and just get a feel for the place. I found three police cars outside and a line of police tape stretching all the way around the building.
Uh ... not exactly a nice atmosphere, unless I wanted to get shot.
I immediately called Stripper Pimp, and he had a new suggestion. I should do an amateur night at a mixed club called Starz.
(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 10 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
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