I need to believe that there are people in this world who want to do something besides take advantage of me.
People who Take advantage of people who are in worse positions than themselves, or destroy the lives of anyone who has the sheer AUDACITY to be in a BETTER one. If you’ve never met anyone that fits that loathsome description: congratulations! You’re either a psychopath, or you’ve never had the unfortunate experience of having been victimized by one. Statistically, according to very limited data collected on the topic of sociopathy and psychopathy, people on that spectrum of personality disorders only account for 1% of the total population in the country. But readers, I’m here to tell you…if I got entangled with 5 of them (all separately) that number has simply not accurately reflected reality. To me, there is a psychopath potentially around every corner, just waiting to charm my socks off and get deep enough into my compassionate heart to gash it open and rip out the sutures from his predecessors and “finish the job.”
I am technically a 37-year-old female living with multiple disabilities (some of them due to natural causes, others the result of being tortured, mentally, emotionally, physically and ultimately, even spiritually for the last decade). On paper, I am a low-income single Caucasian female with Bipolar Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Panic Disorder, multiple eating disorders, Rheumatoid Arthritis, idiopathic chronic pancreatitis, newly developed Agoraphobia and Hypervigillance, Stockholm Syndrome, and really the list goes on with the devastating continuous effects of being victimized repeatedly and savagely for ten years of my once promising (in spite of being underprivileged) life.
Up until a year ago, I would have told you I was ambitious, hopeful, spontaneous, a hopeless romantic, and that I was going to change the world, just wait and see, the Lord has a special plan for me, I’m not sure what but He says I’m going to change the world! Look at me go, no matter how hard I fall and no matter how hard they hit me I don’t break! I’m invincible! I’m not scared of anything, because The Lord is with me.
A year ago, I had not been discarded by my partner, socially outcast, isolated, falsely imprisoned, raped and left sitting in a parking lot with my assailant a 5 minute walk away from my location, where the police had dropped him off after being called to take a report of this incident, thrown out into the Los Angeles streets at 3 in the morning by a man who I believed to be a close friend of mine, brutalized by 2 grown men with immunity from the self defense laws protected by the constitution, thrown subsequently into a jail cell, escaped from a possible serial murderer and confirmed would-be murderer, had my reputation deliberately, inaccurately and wrongfully annihilated, watched as the opening night of the first performance of my very first original musical for the stage was turned into a nightmare of chaos and humiliation, had to call the police on myself and confess to stabbing my romantic partner in the neck with a set of car keys in a desperate attempt to get him to let go of my steering wheel before he drove my rental car into the Pacific Ocean, slept standing up while holding a can of pepper spray, fled a major city for my life, fled my own residence for my life, fled the home of my “best friend” again, for my life, been forced to be in a position of dependency on and therefore under the control of an abusive, manipulative, diagnosed psychopath, and possible pedophile and/or child rapist, slept in a car in Los Angeles, slept in a car in a small town, driven through a blizzard for 2 hours, praying for my life only to be raped and verbally abused for the next 48 hours before being dumped on Christmas, at which point I survived an attempted suicide by hypothermia, spent 60 days in total solitude including not speaking to anyone on the phone or hearing another human voice that was not a recording, faced all of my own demons and then some, fought and defeated said demons, and lived through all of it somehow.
And that’s only some of it. And that’s only in the last 365 days.
At one point, during my 60 days of isolation in what I used to refer to as “a vivarium to a pervert” and is now my reluctant home, I was not so sure I’d be experiencing this moment. I was not sure if I was going to be strong enough to withstand anymore hardships, and therefore I had firmly resolved to not go beyond the threshold of my fancy jail cell until it was absolutely beyond optional.
That turned out to be when I was most likely dying of starvation or chronic symptoms of PTSD, the resulting hyper vigilance and debilitating insomnia, or a combination of all the effects of severe trauma followed by emotional, social and physical isolation. My precarious state of being alive and being able to venture beyond these walls came to my attention on my son’s 15th birthday. I hadn’t eaten anything besides condiments for a week, at least, a time which I only knew because I had begun counting sunrises, all of which I was wide awake to witness, albeit from the window, cowering half clothed with one sock and a filthy dirty duvet over my head and wrapped around me as if it were some kind of impenetrable shield of protection. The blanket being apparently covered in my bodily fluids and even some evidence of waste of a more solid variety, including bits of ancient food and my own fecal matter, since I had long ago stopped removing my shield before using the toilet, if I used the toilet which was becoming something I did less and less and only of I felt the urge to poop. If these details are frightening: they’re meant to be. I am detailing what can become of a human being when they are subjected to abuses of this caliber, for this length of time. I truly cannot attribute my survival to anything short of divine intervention.
I had stopped looking at my phone for any reason other than to record videos of myself in that condition and consider sending them to people who (I was fairly certain? At least? Maybe?) used to care about my well being, but I would ultimately add the videos and voice notes to the archives of my device and go back to talking to Jesus, asking him to please ask God to send me a sign that would give me a will to get out of this situation. And always being sure to add a question in the p.s. Why? Why are you letting this happen to me, Lord? Why can’t I fix it? Why can’t I just pretend to be hopeful and happy like I used to? Why can’t I act normal?
Some how, I assume my guardian angel was behind this little stunt, I received a call from my son’s step mother, the recent divorcee of his father, with whom he had opted to raise for the last 5 years, following my official diagnosis as “mentally and physically disabled” by the social security administration, although not labeled with the inescapable stain of “unfit parent” by the grace of God. I take a lot of pride in that. I’ve always been very willing to accept my own”inadequacies” and disregard the obnoxiously vocal judgement of others, having asked for help in raising my child before, always humbly admitted when I was unable to juggle all the things that are demanded of a single mother, let alone a disabled one.
When I answered the phone, I expected some of that judgement to be what I heard on the other end since it was now 7 pm on the day of my sons birth and I hadn’t yet called or shown up, to deliver my signature “happy birthday bunny boy” number that anyone close to me gets graced with usually on midnight of their day of many happy returns.
What I was confronted with was much worse than judgment. It was concern. Compassion. A gentle voice. With kindness in it. It threw me in ways only someone who has lived through a similar experience (and I hope no one who has is reading this, if only so that I can rest assured that it is just as uncommon as I think for most human being’s to have to experience this level of suffering) she wanted to know if I was ok. How I was doing. Why I didn’t visit as much anymore. Where had I been? Did I need a hug? You should come over, she said. So, infected scab encrusted scalp be damned, I showered for the first time in what I imagine was about 2 months, give or take a dissociative week/few extra days. I dressed myself. I styled my hair, carefully avoiding the lesions on the crown of my head, and donned one of my favorite hats lest the wounds were more visible than I perceived. I found my car keys. And I drove myself the 12 miles to my son’s birthday party.
I was noticeably thin, apparently, which was met with polite offerings of cake and other party foods, which I ate in the company of 7 teenagers, a wonderful experience unlike anything else, to be surrounded by male American 9th graders, I highly recommend to anyone with an ounce of humor in them to enjoy such a merry treat, lol. I suppose it must have been getting to see that my son was actually doing very well, he was thriving and doing great! He had many friends, and that was so comforting to know. My greatest fear was that he would end up like me: friendless. Abused. Unwanted. Discarded. Out of touch. Fragile, and unrelateable to his peers. I truly am blessed to have what I confidently refer to as the perfect kid, also deemed so by his step mother, his grandparents, aunts and uncles, and anyone who spends more than five minutes with him. Although I have always emphasized to him that love is not something we earn, you’d never know it to watch the kid go. He’s kinder, more dedicated and hard working, more understanding, more self reliant and more well adjusted than any one of the young people his age who have had a “normal” life by comparison to his own conflict-and-tragedy-soaked journey so far.
With the little nudge of “you still have life to live” my guardian angel, I had a lovely time at the party, and that feeling carried me through the next few days. And even after my zeal prompted me to make the ill advised decision to attend the yearly gathering at my sister’s split level dream home resulted in more trauma being heaped onto me and a narrow escape from yet another suicide attempt, which included texting the passcode to my phone and other devices to my mother with no explanation, a farewell original song posted to my bandlab and shared on my Instagram account, I somehow have managed to pull myself together.
And I’m still here. I still have the chance to do what I’ve always believed I was born to do: change the world. Leave it better than I found it.
I don’t fully understand why I have experienced the hardship and devastation, the rejection and the abhorrent abuse that I have, why none of my opportunities were ever fully realized due to constant tragedy and misfortune plaguing my every step, but I do know that it was not for nothing. I have continued to believe, even in my darkest moments, that there has simply got to be a a reason for all of this.
Wether it was to take me from “exceptionally compassionate potential philanthropist” to “emotional and mental warrior that will lift up anyone with the courage to reach out their hand, (and even the guy next to them who didn’t reach out his hand) “ so that I could not only relate to anyone, I could say that I had been there, I’m not sure. I’ve even wrestling set the question posed such questions to my creator and redeemer: was all that REALLY necessary???
I know that my heart has always called me to help others. One of my greatest life experiences was working as a caregiver to a quadriplegic former Olympian in Santa Monica. He taught me the most valuable lesson in life: the only difference between me and someone who has less problems and is more miserable and unhappy is my attitude. A positive attitude makes a the difference, an attitude of humility, gratefulness, and charity.
I’ve held into that advice.
It’s gotten me through experiences that were nothing short of nightmarish, and been my comfort as I search within my soul to find the positive in a life being stripped of all stability and therefore the genuine title of “mother” of my hard work and dedication in the entertainment industry and the relationships I’ve formed having come to nothing, in the wake of several Narcissistic a smear campaigns designed to discredit me in case I were ever thinking of coming forward with allegations against the perpetrators of the abuse, nervous breakdowns that I realize now to have been the result of my human spirit fighting for itself, standing up against all the abuse it was withstanding, but which have now besmirched my name.
As I look around the cage that I call home, and spend yet another weekend all alone, holding onto hope fluctuates, intensely optimistic one day and dashed to pieces with each unseen Bandlab release that I eagerly post saying to myself, THIS is goons be the one, come on don’t let me down! And I sacrifice another seemingly insignificant $200 on “boosting” my posts in the hopes that the right person will hear my music or my comedy in an add, and watching as my $1200 pittance from SSDI payments again vanishes within a week of receiving it, and yet I continue to invest in that hope because I know that it’s my last one. I’ve never given up on it, I know that i have the skills and the attitude and the character to stand the test of time and rejection that it takes to succeed in any business, but which the entertainment industry demands ten times more of its lofty daydreamers that are its foundation, it’s fabric and fiber, and the glitter that draws every human eye far and wide to it every time the Oscar nominees are presented on E! The comfort they find as they listen to their favorite pop song in the car on their way to work, getting geared up and ready to face the day and do their best, or enjoy a therapeutic cry during the finale of that show they’ve been dying to watch all week, or snuggle up to read their favorite best seller, any time they have a meaningful moment? There’s a soundtrack to it.
Beyond my technical abilities, I understand something far more than i can demonstrate by wowing anyone with my engineering chops : the human condition. The human need for connection, and communication, and celebration. The longing to be free of the mundane and the insignificant. The longing for today to mean something a little bit more. To relate and be relatable to. To be less alone, in any way they can.
I understand what makes us have those needs, and why I feel the need to supply that need to people SO INTENSELY that I was willing to do it almost entirely for free for the last 20 years, much of which time was spent fighting off the envious villains who would find themselves feeling threatened or inadequate in the light of my success, so rather than work on becoming as great as they believe to be necessary, they pour their energy into destroying someone who has the drive, the ability and the stamina to get to the finish line.
What’s more, I don’t desire the spotlight for the mindless self indulgence of fame and attention that it would supply. I have goals and grand scale projects I want to accomplish that require funding, and not just funding: they require INFLUENCE.
What I’m planning to do has the potential to become the new normal. The new basic model for living, internationally. It can work; I fully believe it can work. I believe very firmly that using the concept I have to end homelessness, to end human trafficking, to greatly reduce if not eradicate suicide, reduce addiction and the associated drug trafficking and violence related to that. What this plan is on the surface is a simple concept to address the problems faced by the citizens of a tiny little place that everyone knows about and likewise knows nothing about: Jamaica.
I plan to start there, and demonstrate how easily and quickly it eliminates much of the trouble in that country.
Why do I want to start there? Because in my solitude and isolation I had a 2-hour conversation with a T-Mobile customer service employee, and he told me a little tidbit of information about his home country that sparked a little match in my heart. This kid was 22, and I felt like I was speaking to an equal, someone my own age, he was full of wisdom and very down to earth, yet he was little more than a child, and facing a life of struggling and poverty, being grossly underpaid by an opportunistic capitalist business model that seeks to lift up those who are already lifted and keep down those who it enslaves. At 22, he was very compassionate, very intelligent and educated, particularly regarding the thing I most talked about at the time to anyone who would listen, psychopathy, sociopathy, its devastating effects on any life it touches. I would have believed him if he had told me he was 35.
So when he told me he was struggling to pay $200/ month in rent to Keep a roof over the heads of his mother and himself? I could scarcely believe my ears. I think the first thing I said in response was huh?? What?!! It’s that cheap!!?! lol he didn’t agree with my statement that it was cheap, at least not until I drew him a little picture of exactly how cheap that is to a United States low-income citizen. And then I asked, how come one of those Hollywood liberals hasn’t just thrown down a half million bucks to literally END homelessness in Jamaica single-handedly??? Come on, George Clooney, I said. What’s YOUR problem, man?? lol.
And that’s only in only one place
And that’s only dreaming with $1200/mo to call my income. I could still do it. It works just be much much longer if a road ahead and it might be a fair amount more perilous for me to start out so broke and demoralized, but as the Lord would see fit to grace me, I came across a YouTube video that was a list of places and websites where people of means just freely help people in need or help to fund their business and non profit ideas.
Right now, I’m asking for any amount of help that someone cares to contribute. I can ask for $200/ month to pay for advertising and hope that is enough to push my art to the front of the sea-of-mediocrity that is clogging the feed of everyone who opens their Instagram so they can give it .5 seconds of their precious time before scrolling right past me if I fail to be sexy, shocking, terribly of key or flashy enough to hold their attention for any longer than that.
But something tells me I need a bigger audience, a larger advertising budget, a bigger ad, and I have EVERY confidence that I am the cream that will rise to the top.
I saw an ad for adspace on Hulu being some of the most affordable there is! I have a concept for a music video that will most certainly turn heads, give pause and likely cause many an argument, it’s going to be a very bold move, I have everything I need to create this video, I’m willing to do it for the $0 budget I currently have and use a borrowed camera and hire my friend as the lead actor, that’s not a problem. I’m no stranger to working for myself and my dreams for free. I can edit it. I only want to make sure that if I need to add any special effects, I can hire a skilled professional for that, or I can take a master class and learn how to do it myself, either way that will cost me something. And once it’s complete, I need to make sure I’m dropping it with a lot of anticipation, creating a buzz for its release, and that’s going to take advertising and naturally that’s going to mean more budget.
I’m not sure what a reasonable dollar amount is to “kickstart” my plan. And I’m not sure I’ve described it adequately or presented myself as entirely worthy or “together” or accomplished to provoke any of you to donate, but, I still leave you with this:
Even if I had no plan, and were just begging for a chance to call a place home, I’d like to believe I’d be worth it to someone. That my safety and ability to simply exist without fear has value to someone besides myself.
To live in a place that has a door that locks to everyone, and only I have the key. To receive my mail directly, not after it’s been fingered through and pilfered of relevant information regarding my credit, which has now been destroyed in less time than the impressively short time that I took it from non existent to a 690, note reduced through calculated control at the hands of my abuser withholding statements and due dates and allowing the card he opened for me to start maxed out for nearly a year, as I watched in helpless horror my operating record become sullied and my sinking score dwindle to a 540, then under 500, as he withheld the allowance from me that used to be so generously given and deliberately forced me to have to choose between feeding myself or ruining my credit. And if that’s not evil enough, waiting like a Disney villain with a wicked smile spread across his face until I went out of town in the summer of 2022 to make a music video to change the locks of the apartment I was living in on his lease, place my belongings in a storage unit and formally evict me, destroying my rental history in one fiendish swoop and sealing my fate as his trophy. His bobble. His caged bird that sings. His goose that lays golden eggs-I’m an avid writer, and before I knew this man well he watched in impressed awe as I created an entire cast of characters, a complete script and 9 songs for him in a single weekend after he threw a concept out in a read through meeting for a production he had cast me in. At the end of that weekend, he concealed my cell phone from me, began poisoning me which resulted in me lying comatose for several days and somehow surviving repeated sexual assaults from this 60-year-old wolf in sheep’s clothing.
So even if you heard some of the slanderous lies about me that my former abusers concocted and spread like wildfire through the walls of the entertainment industry, such that I viewed continuing to raise my son to be an unfavorable position to put my co-parents in, I wonder.
Would that mean I’m not worthy of being safe from this man? Finally? Would it be worth the leap of faith it might take?
To give me a shot at more than a roof over my head. A home. Where I don’t have to live in fear and the disturbing awareness that I’m being watched, constantly. To be able to sleep in a bed, to be able to sleep all the way and not with one eye on the front door that has bungee cords tied to a bookshelf and a bell on it in case my rapist decides to pay me a visit now that he’s sure my guard is lowered to him and I won’t be expecting him, or to eat a meal and not worry that this might be the time he decides that it’s not free anymore and is going to take it out of my ass, or purchase myself a meal and know that means I spend another week trapped in this situation, to eat the more expensive food items that will lessen the inflammation that plagues my entire body everyday and renders me incapable of going out and finding a bartending job, to have a home that is only my home. Where I’m safe. Really, actually safe. To create in peaceful state, who knows what I might come up with if I feel safe, and sleep 8 hours a night, real REM rest, and can invite my son over to spend the weekend with me sometimes without fearing a possible pedophile and confirmed rapist and sexual predator will be watching him sleep, any of this is invaluable to me, so I’m just going to say this last bit.
Whoever reads this and whoever is inclined to have compassion for it even if it’s not the most easily relatable situation…and even with the enormity of information and details I’ve provided, still an incomplete picture of how I ended up here. If you feel anything in your gut, your heart your chest…your elbow…. Anything at all, that tells you to believe in me, then let that same instinct tell you what the value of my piece of mind is. How worthless or not my life is, too, and I’m going to trust it. I am going to trust that this message is viewed by someone who is not an opportunistic predator, or another villain seeking to control me and objectify me, possess my work, possess my ability to move about freely, possess my ability to promote my work, possess my time…I’m going to trust that there are people who can’t stand to see another person in pain, or in chains. Even if the chains are invisible, and the pain is not a kind they can relate to entirely.
I need to know that I’m not as worthless as my abusers have convinced me of. They demonstrate my value by attempting to entrap me, control me and isolate me. But, just once I’d like to be worth something to the world in a way that lifts me up and helps me to be able to help other people who need help. That’s always been my end game, which must sound crazy coming from a person who a month ago couldn’t even bathe. I guess that’s why I want it more than ever now.
Cos whatever the problem is? Whatever might be holding someone back? I can guarantee you…I’ve been there, and even if I haven’t, I still won’t judge and I’ll help anyway. Nobody’s crappy circumstances are something they thought was going to happen. We all do the best we can with the resources and information we have available. That’s what I believe. That’s how I’m able to have enough faith in myself to post this. I don’t pity myself, and I don’t beat myself up, what more can I ask for really? Most people in this situation would be incapable of remaining somewhere in the center of those two extremes.
The fact that I am able to remain adrift somewhere in that center is what makes me certain that I will not simply “not give up” but I will in fact succeed and triumph over it all. Regardless of how much is or is not donated here, I will not be deterred. They can’t, as the hackneyed idiom defiantly proclaims, take my birthday!
PayPal.me/jwabbs
https://www.bandlab.com/post/1dac3500-52cd-ee11-85f9-6045bd2e11f9