Pretty Woman

The prompt is simple: Steal From Yourself.
Return to something you wrote years ago and use one idea, image, character, or line from it to create something entirely new.

I am hung up. Stumped. Lost. Needing direction.

I write all first drafts on Google Docs. I feel a sense of accomplishment when I can copy and paste a complete text onto Vocal. Erases the effort, nails the accomplishment. I give you my most finished self.

Unable to draw inspiration from older works close at hand, I decided I would scroll back through my oldest Google documents, taking me back to 2017. I knew this would bring me to sensitive content: the beginning of my addiction took root around this time. What better place to find something worth reimagining than a piece from my former self?

At first, the work was fairly easy to digest. I was sad, depressed, angry, scared, suicidal, despondent, fearful, alone, defiant, and loathsome. But the words were sharp. I can work with sharp.

Then I found the following poem (unedited)

Once

upon

a

time

I tried to

sell

myself

for

money

and by this

I mean

get

paid

for

sex

my

14

th

lover

was

an

old

man

I

was

so

disgusted

when he

said

I can’t

believe

I’m ready

to

go

again

and I laid

there

or

maybe

I

straddled

him

honestly

I don’t

remember

got all

those

tests

after

like I dodged

a

bullet

cause I felt

shot

through

the

heart

just a body

going

through

the motions

I didn’t

even

have

the

energy

to

fake

payment

I lied about this

for the

longest

time

longer

than

a climax

but not

long

enough

for

shame

name of the game?

He was a renowned

doctor

here to give a speech

married

three kids

and I was the

vessel

he poured

his own

insecurities

into.

I ran.

I ran so fast the

chef

of the same

hotel

said

didn’t I just see you?

and he woo

d

me

bought me

black and milds

and I think I

fucked

him

too

I do not remember these events.
I started shaking.
I started crying.

I knew that in active addiction I put myself in terrifying situations. I let men decide my worth. I knew I didn't remember much, a defense mechanism put on by my brain to allow me to sit inside my own skin, sober. Five years ago, I forced myself to count, by number, the men I had let into my body at this time. With every name came violence. Often it was physical, sometimes mental, and always emotional. Once, I truly thought I was going to die. I had been wanting to die. It felt selfish to hurt remembering it.

In recovery, I must accept that I let myself go into a place of darkness so vast I could only anchor my physical body in unsafe and unsettling situations. Many willing men were in this space. I forget them all most days so I can forgive myself. They do not know my name.

Reading this, I recalled this doctor. The shame boils to the surface. I wouldn't recognize him if I saw him in a room. Sometimes at work, a man makes a certain kind of face at me, and I have to wonder if he knows me.

You don't know me.

I am stealing one line.

Didn't I just see you?

Would I know you

in the hotel

hallway

or at the cock

tail

bar

when you've gone

too

far

I would save you from

those

men

you know

as a little girl

I thought Julia

Roberts

offered

saf-t

suckers

to Richard

Gere

the kind the tellers

at the bank

would offer

when the tube

fed the money

and the money

fed

the

tube

you can still choke on it

you

know

the safety

sucker-

Richard Gere's character

proabably

paid

to not wear

a condom

anyway-

and bad men

want it free

and sad girls

want to be

and little girl

you're safe with

me

I won't tell them

that I saw you.