The Confessions of a Mormon Stripper

As I awoke, my thoughts began to drift, “What a nightmare that was. God, was it just a dream?” But visions of the night before began to flash in my mind like a bomb exploding. I opened my eyes and saw blood on the pillow, and I knew instantly it was not a bad dream, it was real. I grabbed my nineteen-month-old daughter, Ava, and looked at her face. Insignificant cuts on her, but I had drenched her in my blood. Panic and terror settled into my heart as I looked at her.

My nose was throbbing in pain, and my eyes could barely open, they were so swollen. Not only had I been crying the night before, but he had beaten me to a bloodied pulp. I ran to the mirror to visualize what had happened. I could not believe what I was looking at. It was even worse than just hours before. My eyes were black and blue, with a slight hint of purple, from the broken nose Michael had given me. My nose was two times its size and crusted over with blood. It had curdled and hardened at the bottom of my nostrils, and it was the only thing holding up more blood from coming out. Michael had moved my nose a little to the left. My hair, face and clothing had blood covering it. It was coming from two places, inside of my nose and outside of my nose on the bridge from a gash that was about a one-fourth inch in size. It was a grotesque site to see.

He hurt me badly this time. Michael, the father of my child, and in my mind at the time, my mortal enemy. We had been together for three and half years, and I was not terribly surprised. Everything led up to this point in our relationship. Life had been extremely tense.

I got on my knees and began to pray. All I could ask for was help. The famous drunk's prayer, “God help me,” seemed to be all I could belt out. It was one of the sincerest prayers I have ever prayed in my life. I got up off my knees and continued to panic.

The date is January 26, 2005. My hangover was bad. I would need cigarettes, marijuana, and coffee to get moving. However, trying to think straight and clear about what to do next was impossible, with or without chemical assistance. The only thing I could do next was move out as quickly, and as haphazardly as possible from the motel where we were staying to the next possible destination, the hospital.