Chapter 21 The Whore Tour #2
I WAS SO HAPPY WITH J. It was a feeling I had never felt before.
Peaceful, safe, even loved? But I was wounded.
I hadn’t begun to heal. Not even close. I didn’t realize then how deeply scarred I was from my relationship with Karma.
It would take over a decade for those wounds to start to heal and for my body to just feel normal.
As I’ve said, severe abuse rewires your brain and your nervous system: That kind of violence stays in your bones long after the bruises have healed.
Back then, I didn’t know shit about healing. I just knew I had to keep moving.
But the edges started to fray. Panic attacks came on me.
I couldn’t be in crowds. These attacks were so severe, they’d send me to the hospital.
Sometimes, they would happen while I was driving, and I’d have to pull the car over on the side of the freeway and puke my brains out.
I called 911 to a hotel room we were staying in—more than once—because I was sure I was having a heart attack.
Panic attacks are like that: Your heart beats out of your chest until you’re completely convinced you’re about to die. You feel like you can’t breathe.
I’d jolt out of bed in the middle of night vibrating with anxiety, and I’d throw my shoes on and jog around the hotel for hours until I calmed down. The anxiety was starting to overpower me. I couldn’t outrun the trauma, no matter how hard I tried.
I started drinking more and more, and it was hitting different.
One night at one of J’s shows, I felt the panic closing in on me.
I looked around at the people in the audience, jumping and screaming their heads off, and their faces started to melt.
Their eyes turned demonic, and I was sure death was coming for me.
I was stuck in severe fight-or-flight mode. Frozen in fear.
If your soul is shattering into a million tiny shards, you get the fuck up and keep going. It’s what I had done my whole life, and for some reason, this time it wasn’t working.
I’d told J from the very start what I’d been through with Karma—and everyone since Mindy.
“I love you,” I told him. “But if I get weird, I’m sorry.
Please don’t get mad at me when I’m having an anxiety attack.
Just love me through it and let me have space so I can calm myself down.
” And that’s exactly what that man did. When I was panicky, I’d go off by myself to self-soothe, and he’d let me.
If he followed me or tried to help, it sent me over the edge more—I’d spiral about how he was feeling.
He never once got angry when I withdrew or judged me if I had go to the hospital because I was falling apart.
If I needed to leave a show because I couldn’t handle the crowds, he’d give me a kiss goodbye.
“You okay, baby? You’re not mad?” he’d ask, and I’d shake my head.
“No, not at all,” I’d say, and tell him I was overwhelmed with anxiety.
“You go and I’ll be at the hotel room as soon as I’m done here,” he’d say. It was the first time I’d ever had a love like that—a love that was actions, not just words.
* * *
I’D BEEN IN TOUCH WITH Vanessa since I finally met her in person. I sent her groceries and tried to help when I could. She never asked for much. Just milk and bread and dog food. She never bothered me for anything but the bare minimum.
She came and visited us on tour, and that night at the show, she just loved on me nonstop.
To this day, I’m thankful that my mom wasn’t in my life during the worst years of her addiction.
The trauma from being abandoned was one thing, but growing up with her might have killed me.
Instead, I got to spend time with her when I had my own life—and my own means to escape. It was on my terms.
But while my mom and I were watching J perform, she started getting antsy and withdrawn.
I saw the signs. I knew what was happening.
Not only did I resemble this woman in general, but it was like looking at myself as she started spiraling into a panic attack.
I tried to comfort her, but she bolted. She just couldn’t be there.
I understood exactly what she was feeling.
I know she’d been abused her whole life.
I never got full stories from her—she never talked about her trauma—but I did get bits and pieces.
Her own father owned an escort agency and pimped her out to men when she was young.
She was a stripper, in and out of abusive relationships, and her downfall was always men. Sound familiar?
The venue door slammed behind her. It was hard to see her so clearly when she couldn’t see herself.
Her addiction had taken so much from her, but in her eyes, she wasn’t an addict.
Her pills, morphine patches, and Dilaudid were all prescribed by a doctor, so she said she “needed” them to function. All poison.
I’m thankful that I didn’t end up like her. Back then, I saw too much of myself when I looked at her and it scared the hell out of me.