How I Ended Up In Missouri

I’ve lived in Kansas City, Missouri for almost 3 years. I’ve met more people that could possibly exist, and I always get one big question, “You're from California? What the hell are you doing here?” Okay... Two big questions.
If I'm feeling lazy, I respond with, "Have you been to California?"
If I'm not feeling lazy, I tell the story... Well, the shorter version.

I would like to preface this tale of woe with this:
I'm not here for sympathy.
I'm writing this to inspire. I'm writing this to remember.
This was a part of my life that shaped me, but it does not define me.

The simple truth is that I was unhappy, but that’s not why I’m in Missouri. I’m in Missouri because I fell in love. And love is funny. Love gets weird. Especially when you bring in a 3rd party.

I got married to my husband on April Fools Day, 2014.

4/1/14.

I thought I was being clever.

We were happy for a short while, but we were kind of crap as a couple. I can admit that now. We never wrote thank you notes, and we had a lot of presents. That’s a couple you want to smack.

I’ve always been bisexual and, oh. I should rewind.

I was a karaoke host in San Diego for a really long time. By day, I was an apartment manager. I got a rent-free pad, a block from the beach. That’ll come back around.

Anyway, one of my smoking hot, female karaoke regulars admitted that she had been (for a lack of a better phrase) “girl crushing” on me for a few years… So after I was married, I brought it up to my husband.

That was my first mistake. My second mistake was taking the green light and running with it.

As it turns out, she was smoking hot to both sexes. Needless to say, I got a little kooky and she became less of a lesbian. While a polyamorous lifestyle works out for certain people, it did not work out for me. He left me for her about a month later.

That would be around the time the catalyst of my downward spiral of depression and self-loathing walked into my life. By, “that would be the time”, I mean I latched on to the first man to show me interest less than a day later. I picked the wrong man. My picker was broken.

I picked Robert. A newly released, 23 year old Marine with a real bad drinking problem and a proud death count in Afghanistan. I should have seen that one coming.

All was well for a few months, but as he discovered he had less and less purpose in life, he became more volatile. I found myself in the same abusive relationship I ran away from in my early 20’s.

It got pretty dark for a while. It started with simple disregard. It quickly grew into a general hate for women and me, specifically.

From there, it took a sharp left into what I refer to as, “The Worst Valentine’s Day Ever”.

I woke up that morning with hope. Maybe he got me a flower, or made me a card. I had heart chocolates hidden, even though we’d been at odds. When I walked out into the living room, he was at his post with his Xbox controller in hand.

I was determined to have a good Valentines Day, so I didn’t say anything.

When he scoffed at my chocolates and told me Valentine’s Day was stupid, I couldn’t hold my tongue.

“Fine, I assume you don’t want to come to work with me either”

I was hosting Karaoke that night, hoping we could sing gooey gross love songs to each other.

“Not if you’re going to be a bitch”

The fight lasted hours. I was devastated. He agreed to go with me if I “wasn’t a bitch”.

We drove there in silence. I set up my equipment.

He drank $70 dollars in alcohol in the first hour, stormed out, stuck me with the tab, and got banned from the bar.

After my shift was over I drove home to an empty apartment. I figured he was blowing off steam, so I went to bed. He woke me up crying and screaming, he even spit on my face once. Apparently he had walked the 8 miles home and forgotten to call me.

He stormed out of the bedroom, but now I was riled up. No one spits on me without getting slapped and a good talking to about how to treat women. So I slapped him.

“Do it again”

So I did.

“You slap like a bitch”

I sat down. Then to my surprise, he sat down too. We talked like grow ups for about 15 minutes before I said something snarky and he snapped.

He reached over, and in one swift moment, I couldn’t breathe.

Now, I’ve been choked before (in my early 20’s), but this wasn’t the same. He had me by the center of my throat, and he was pulling it out. He was literally trying to pull my throat out. His eyes were dark and blank. I’d never seen him look at anything like he was looking at me. And right before I lost consciousness, he loosened his grip, like he realized what he was doing.

I don’t know how I grabbed my phone and jumped over the couch so fast, but I landed across the apartment in the bathroom. The bathroom was my safe space with my former abuser, and it was instinct.

I heard him from behind the door, crying.

“You don’t deserve this”

Silence.

“No one deserves this”

I heard him get up and go to the kitchen. I left the bathroom, because I knew this wasn’t over. I had 911 dialed and ready to call.

He had slit his wrists. He was bleeding, but not bleeding out. Like, he had sawed on them but didn’t have the guts to actually push down. I called the cops.

Now when I tell this story, I usually wrap it up in a paragraph… But you guys are special ;-)

The cops came, took him for a 72 hour psych hold and asked if I wanted to press charges. I said no. Mostly cause I didn’t want to look over my shoulder for the rest of my days. I could have been braver, but I wasn’t.

I ended up drinking myself into the E.R. that night. 2 days later, my dad would hand him $100 and tell him to leave the state (which he did, my dad’s scary like that). It would also be the day I got to have an intervention. One of my best friends crashed it and pointed out that it was not the best timing for that kind of thing. Gotta love yo girlz.

After being in detox with a B.A.C. of 0 (I had stopped drinking by then), and an all-female rehab for 3 weeks… My interventionist realized that there was more to the story and found me a Trauma Recovery Center in Kentucky.

It was beautiful. The whole thing. I would have stayed forever if they let me.

After voluntarily giving up my phone and my cigarettes for a month, it was time to check out.

I had obviously lost my jobs at this point (and subsequently my apartment), my car had been repossessed, and I didn’t really feel like going back to California… I called my cousin in Kansas City.

I won’t go into detail about how amazing it is here because the locals would shank me, but I will tell you it’s full of crime and racism. And rent is dirt cheap. And we have the best storms. And the people are amazing. I mean, crime and racism. Don’t move here, it’s terrible.

Also, don’t get married on April Fools Day.