My Coming Out Story Revealed… Do You Dare???

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As many of you know, I’ve been working on a second edition of my book, “Secrets of the Velvet Closet; A Memoir” that’s been re-edited and redone so it read more smoothly and made more sense. Well my wonderful readers…. it’s finally here! I will be posting a generous sample here so that you can see how interesting it is for yourself. I hope to gather all the views that I can to show the world people do care about those who’s voices haven’t been heard. Whether it be abuse sexually, abuse verbally, black sheep for personality, black sheep for sexuality, sibling rivalry, or whatever it may be. I believe this book has it all and will open your eyes to what’s real in life and how it hides in the darkest corners in the world that no one sees with their eyes, but would with their heart if they were to open up and allow the feelings to come through. It’s hard to go back into your world whenever whatever happened and relive what they did or said to you. I know I’ve been working on it for the last two years. I’ve gone from tears of sadness to tears of joy to shame to pride all in the same 300 pages. It has been the single most eye opening experience I have had in my whole life. The really hard part is knowing anyone in the world including my family have the ability to read what I’ve been keeping locked up for so long. Why I am the way that I am and what it was that kept me locked up in that closet for so long. It’s been a real roller coaster ride with more emotions that I’ve known to deal with. I believe when you read this book, it will change your life and it will open your heart and mind more than you’ve ever known how. . . with out further ado….

Prologue

Growing up I had some real struggles with my sense of self, and obviously with my sexuality. I hid in churches from all the alcoholism in my family, and I secretly hid all my emotions and feelings in my poetry. My writing has always been an outlet for me to get everything out. It was sort of like my own personal therapy. Every now and then in my blog, I hear from someone who has been touched by what I wrote. To be honest, the struggle with my sexuality was not really my biggest struggle growing up. Yes, I did have thoughts and emotions that I didn’t understand. However, I did have something else going on with me that I didn’t know went even deeper than I had ever imagined…

Table of Contents

Note to Reader
Chapter 1-Brandy
Chapter 2-Boise, Oh Boise
Chapter 3-Finding Me in Michigan
Chapter 4-Masters of Deception
Chapter 5-Makwa’s with a Madman
Chapter 6-Reality Check-Aisle 5
Chapter 7-Tequila Rose and Violet Eyes
Chapter 8-Florida or Bust
Chapter 9-The Violet Butterfly
Epilogue-The Proposal…eeeek!
Bonus Chapter-Badly Abused
Acknowledgements

Note to Reader—

“This is a true story from the author’s point of view. All names have been changed to protect the innocent.”

Chapter 1
Brandy

Life isn’t as bad as most think it be,
Sometimes our choices let us be free;
Between the good times and the bad, it tends to get deep;
For our feelings may clutter and our hearts may creep.

I was She-Ra: Princess of Power. I was Smurfette, the coolest girl in town. I was Rose, a seven-year-old badass who had the biggest crush on Brandy, and somehow didn’t even know it. I was indestructible—or so I thought.

Living in a run-down trailer park in Garden City, Idaho, it took a lot of imagination to keep myself entertained. My biological parents, Mary and Mark, were only married for a short time, so Mark was never a significant part of my childhood—more on that later. From the time I was two until the age of twelve, Norman became my stand-in father—although he and my mom never married. When I was four, Mom and Norman “blessed” me with a half brother. Baby Simon quickly became the favorite, and as I settled into the role of insta-sitter, he became the thorn in my side for many years to come.
Despite my mother’s questionable parenting skills, her alcoholism, and her harsh methods of punishment, she was, and still is my rock. I never doubted she always had my best interests at heart. Sometimes I had to sneak up and look sideways to see them, but her good intentions were always present. And through her partying and her disapproval of me growing up too slowly for her needs, she was always honest with me, kept me out of harm’s way as best as she could, loved me—tough love, mind you—and worked her ass off.
Much of Mom’s hard-earned money came from scrubbing houses for a living. So even if some of the money went toward appeasing her drinking habit, I always had food in my belly and a roof over my head, even if the food was ramen noodles and the roof was made of aluminum.

By the time I was seven years old, I had spent most of my free time babysitting my now three-year-old little brother. The funny thing was I had to watch him, yet I still needed a babysitter. This was a perfect example of my mother’s unique parenting skills. Mom didn’t trust a stranger to look after her young daughter while she was off partying or working, so I became a surrogate mother to Simon. I was in charge of a toddler with no bedtime and who was allowed to watch horror movies.
From time to time, Norman decided to look after his favorite kid—again not me. This was the only time I didn’t have Simon attached to my hip. Usually, Norman would disappear all day long, but I never really knew what he did for a living, if anything. Maybe he was a government spy, a drug dealer, or a pimp—who knew.
I always felt as if I were a disappointment to my mother, since I never held the little girl image she was looking for in her daughter. I always craved her attention, but what I needed was rarely reciprocated. So as a young child, I came up with ways for her to notice me. I knew she loved country music, so I sang Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn songs to her, and she loved it! I began writing silly songs—dumb little ditties—that would have her in tears and bragging to all of her friends. I thoroughly enjoyed singing, but even more, I loved pleasing my mom. I quickly discovered that serenading her was the key to my mother’s heart.
While a wee one, having her around as much as possible—sober or not—and gaining her approval was extremely important to me. I tried the whole cutesy skirt-wearing thing; I didn’t like it, but I tried it. Whenever Mom’s drinking buddies would come over, they would pat or pinch my ass. I would tell my mom when this happened, but she would remind me that they were drunk and meant nothing by it. At this point, nothing more ever happened, but I quickly learned to give up on the dresses in favor of pants.

As previously mentioned, not only was my mother’s approval important, but also the need to be a normal kid. I was a kid, I deserved to be a kid, and I would be a kid. Despite my circumstances, and fueled by my wild imagination, I found ways to have fun.
We were lucky enough to have a junkyard right in the trailer park, which we would go and play in. It was a blast, especially when my little brother wasn’t around. And without Simon around, I was able to devout my time to my first-ever crush.
We met one day when I went out and played on the gravel that ran through the trailer park. This was something I did often for entertainment. I took off my socks, shoes, and ran across these rocks as fast as my little legs would take me, which was faster than anyone else in the entire neighborhood. I was the bomb-diggity, and I knew it. No one could beat me, and that was a natural high.
There was a birthday party going on across the street, and a little girl about my age came out and asked what I was doing. I told her, and she asked if she could try. She was wearing a pretty little dress and had long, beautiful hair. She took off her shoes and attempted to do the nearly impossible, unfortunately without success. I thought it was so cool that she even wanted to try. She introduced herself as Brandy, and a beautiful friendship was born. We were inseparable. She was my sidekick, my best friend, the Gabby to my Xena. We did everything together. Every afternoon for two years we played and messed around in the junkyard. One of our most favorite things to do was to play with the tar bubbles on the street. We popped the bubbles, ran across them with our bare feet, and then took rocks and painted the road with the wet tar. While playing on a day just like this, Brandy told me she was a “helper” at the trailer park. I honestly had no idea what that meant, but it sounded exciting.
Brandy’s parents were never home—and when I say never—I mean never. This little spot of sunshine was always home by herself, and when her parents did happen to check up on her, I witnessed them being just plain mean and abusive to her. They would yank her around and grab her by the hair, hit her, verbally abuse her, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Outside of her house, I became her protector, her shadow, her best friend in the whole world. She often came to my house for refuge. My mom was usually working or out drinking, so we had lots of time to play and escape the real world.
Around this time, we became avid about going to church. The church bus would come around, give us cookies, and take us to church. This was good because it got Brandy away from the abuse. In retrospect, it was like strangers luring kids with candy. “Come to the dark side, we have cookies.” And boy did we ever eat the cookies! No matter what was going on or where we were we always had a blast together. Every day, I looked forward to seeing my Brandy.

One day, Johnny, a boy not from our trailer park, starting coming around. Johnny was ten years old—three years older than Brandy and me—and he was weird. He thought he was all that and a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was an empath and could sense when things or people weren’t quite right—and Johnny wasn’t right.
On one particular day, I got all dolled up and tried to look cute. My mom thought I was trying to look good for the new boy, but really, I was trying to impress Brandy. Mom kept saying how cute this boy was, but I never thought so. And I had no clue what was going on when Johnny started showing an interest in my girl. He tried to get Brandy to hang out with only him. He tried to keep her from chilling with me—I felt so lost and confused.
This same weekend, stupid, awkward, ugly Johnny walked right up to Brandy and asked her to have sex with him—while I stood right there—and she agreed! I was devastated. I didn’t know exactly what this meant, but I knew it wasn’t right. I knew that there must be something wrong about the situation for Brandy to just desert me like this and go off with this boy.
Pure anger and jealousy coursed through my body, as random thoughts churned through my head. This isn’t fair! She’s my best friend. Who does this boy think he is? She’s my girl!
Why did she want to have sex with him—and not me?
As soon as Johnny asked her, Brandy immediately agreed…and without hesitation. He swooped her away, and off they went together to Brandy’s outdoor playhouse—and didn’t even invite me. He just took my best friend away from me, and she went.
Being the stealthy ninja that I was, I followed them and peeked inside the window of the playhouse. I witnessed them both lying on the ground with their shirts on, but pants off. He was hovering over her, without a clue of what he was doing. He attempted three times to have sex with my Brandy, but couldn’t seem to figure out where to stick it. By the third attempt, I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked in from around the corner and said, “When does your dad come home?”
Both of them yanked up their pants, and Johnny hauled ass.
I watched Brandy closely. With a nervous flutter in my belly, I kept my expression stoic. Her actions hurt me to my core, but I wouldn’t let her know this. All I wanted was my Brandy. Finally, I licked my lips and with a painful tightness in my throat, I asked her, “So, did you do it?”
“Did you really think I would do it?” she said.
I was feeling so many things that I couldn’t comprehend. What was so special about Johnny? Why was she trying to do these weird things with him? This was so unfair! This was all new to me, and I didn’t understand any of it. I just knew that I needed to protect my girl.
Weirdo Johnny was never to be seen again.
Brandy and I continued to play together as if nothing had happened. We were once again inseparable, except for when she went to go play video games at the neighbor’s house. I tried to invite myself, but Brandy said, “You may not like it.” Her constant attempts to push me away made me want to play even more. My best friend disappeared for hours and no longer wanted to play with me. I finally got Brandy to explain. She would do this man a “favor,” and then he would “reward” her with video game time.
I felt as if my world was crashing around me. I was no longer seeing Brandy. She wasn’t coming over anymore. No more hand to hold, no more hair to play with, and no more drinks to share. I missed my Brandy so much that I started to follow her to this old guy’s house. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t share her new “friend.” I mean come on—I wanted to play video games, too. Little did I know that instead of me protecting Brandy, she was the one protecting me.
I was confused and missed Brandy so much that I finally told Mom everything. I told her about Johnny, the neighbor, and I even told her how Brandy “helped out” around the trailer park—even though I had no clue what that meant. Mom laid it right on the line. She explained that Brandy was being molested not only by the video game guy, but also at home. This was why she was okay with Johnny wanting to have sex with her…she was used to this.
I never found out if Mom called the authorities, or if it was someone else, but shortly after our discussion I was told that Brandy had been taken away. Not even a good-bye! I was crushed and devastated. I felt as if I had failed my Brandy.
At the time, I didn’t realize that maybe I had helped and protected her better than anyone else. All I knew was that I had lost my Brandy forever—she was gone—I thought I was going to die. It felt as if we were two lost souls in a fish bowl…and I was drowning.

While still in my funk, there was a boy about a year younger than I was who liked me. I had a bubble gum machine, and he thought that was the best thing ever. I really couldn’t blame him—bubble gum machines were super cool! He would bring money over to buy bubble gum from me. I really didn’t want to be his friend—I was still missing Brandy—but my mom told me to be nice, so I tried. This boy had a huge crush on me, and he wanted to help with everything. Honestly, he was annoying the crap out of me. He was invading my personal space, the space that I still thought belonged to Brandy and me. I seriously wasn’t digging his attention.
My mom kept pushing his friendship on me. He would show up at the door and ask to play. I really didn’t have a choice in the matter, so I gave his companionship a shot.
One particular day while he was over, Mom said she had to leave and would be back later. Not long after we were by ourselves—alone—and this boy started getting all touchy-feely. I didn’t know what to make of this, and well, I was supposed to like this boy. My mom made that perfectly clear. Anyway, this new “friend” snuck under my bed, and he talked me into lying next to him. He said if we liked each other, we should put our hands down each other’s pants, and being a curious kid, and not knowing any better, I obliged.
Every time he tried to put his hand down my pants, I would laugh. I couldn’t help myself, it tickled. Finally, I reciprocated. I slid my hand down his pants—and much to my surprise—felt this weird floppy thing—and laughed even harder. I kept flinging this thing back and forth. It was the weirdest thing ever. In retrospect, I knew I shouldn’t have laughed at him—flop, flop, flop—but I couldn’t help myself. I was out of control. Once the giggling stopped, the flopping got old quickly, so I suggested we go outside to play
I should have been happy that a boy liked me, but I wasn’t. My first sexual experience was a disaster, and I felt more appalled than anything else.

This kid and I continued to be friends, and we never spoke of the “floppy” disaster again. And thank the gods, his undying crush fizzled. I must have broken his little heart, but at least I could now tolerate him. After I tried to “like” him under the bed, I thought, “What about a girl?” I wondered if a girl would laugh at me doing the same thing with my hands down her pants. This was a fear I would carry for years. I’d never seen a penis before “the disaster,” and I didn’t care to ever again, but I would.
To this day, I can’t help but laugh at the one-eyed, floppy monster. No offense guys, but it’s weird looking. You’ve got to know that. Giggle!

Since Mom and Norman were never home, she finally realized I should have a babysitter. She entrusted her drinking buddy from next door to watch and protect Simon and me. One night, he was watching us, and he forgot to turn off his “funny” movies. As an adult, he should have known better. Anyway, he put Simon to bed and continued to talk to me about this movie. Luckily, this guy never tried anything with me, but he did ask what I thought of the movie. This was a black-and-white movie with naked people, on a beach, playing and dancing with each other. I told him I thought it was funny and weird. Whenever we went over and Simon fell asleep, he would put these weird movies on and we would watch them together. Talk about warped.
Needless to say, this guy didn’t watch my brother and me for long. Not only was he the funny movie man, but he was also a Peeping Tom. One night I was putting on my jammies, ya know, the really long ones that people wore in the 80s, and I saw a face in the window. Automatically I screamed, “Mommy, Mommy!” However, Mommy was out partying. Norman happened to be home this night and went outside to check out this familiar face, but he couldn’t find him. I told my parents that I never wanted this man to watch us again and that settled it. So, once again, at the ripe old age of seven, I would be our sole babysitter.
However, I did realize that I was a pretty decent babysitter. I knew to lock the windows, and my mom and I had secret knocks to ensure our safety. If my mom went to the bar with her friends, and they had kids, I babysat for them, too. My payment was soda pop, chips, and staying up late—better known as camping out. This was a huge deal. Living room campouts were something the other kids and I looked forward to. I felt so grown-up, but I shouldn’t have. I was only a kid. I should have had someone watching over me. This wasn’t my responsibility, but instead, I watched Simon and other kids.

If nothing else, my mom was protective of me. Back then, all I wanted was my mom, and rarely did that ever happen. There was quite a bit of physical abuse, but I didn’t realize it back then. This was all part of my life, learning right from wrong. Mom’s favorite method of punishment was the wire end of the fly swatter. No matter how much force she used, the swatter never broke, but damn you felt it through your clothes.
During my younger years, Mom was okay if Norman—or even her friends—stepped in to help discipline me when she was around. However, when she wasn’t around, they would call me names such as Retard Study, Retarded Rose, or R&R for short. Dingbat was Norman’s all-time favorite name for me—along with a smack to the head. Needless to say, since I was afraid of being hit upside the head, I sucked at sports.
The verbal and emotional abuse that I endured was far worse than the physical abuse. If my mom had known about the abuse, I know she would’ve raised hell, but I never told her—I was too scared.
Whoever said words couldn’t hurt was never a young girl being bullied by grown-up men.

My childhood nickname was Pooh—thank you, Mom—and it was mortifying. She even had a little ditty for me. “Sing a song…Pooh, Pooh perdoo.” How I despised that song! And she always emphasized the last note of doo. She held it as long and as loud as her vocal cords would allow. It was so embarrassing. She kept that idiotic song around until I was about fifteen—she even dropped the name back down to just Pooh.
One day, Simon decided to be creative and made up an oh-so-clever ditty of his own, and taunted me with it, which everyone thought was so cute. “Pooh, Pooh perdoo is gonna poop us down the drain.” Once the kids from the trailer park got word of my nickname and the song, specifically Simon’s friends, they started singing the song every time they saw me. I hated everything about the nickname—the songs, the kids, and my brother. My brother loved, loved, loved that song, and Mom thought it was the most precious thing in world. Even today, she catches herself before singing it—her version that is. I shoot her the evil eye, and she stops. The only good thing that came out of that stupid song was that you knew Mom was in a good mood if she was singing it. And on another note, Simon’s nickname was Bear, and I was Pooh, so together we were Pooh Bear. Why did I get stuck with Pooh of all things? Why couldn’t I be the damn bear?

***

These years were very trying for me. I didn’t get to be a kid very often, and when I did, I wasn’t doing it right. Every time I found a girl that I liked, I found out I wasn’t supposed to like her. The boys thought I was dorky and the whole poo thing that followed me around for years didn’t help my situation.
When I was in fourth or fifth grade, I tried to befriend a girl named Jess. At the time, she looked like a boy—very much so—but I was unaware that she was quite different. One night, we had a sleepover at her house, just the two of us. She confided in me that she wasn’t a boy but she wasn’t a girl either, and I needed to keep it hush-hush. She proceeded to tell me that she liked me. Even for me, that was a bit weird, and I didn’t truly understand what she meant. So, when the big sex talk happened at school, kids—knowing she and I were friends—asked me why she wasn’t in either the girls or the boys discussions. Again, not understanding what she had told me, I slipped and told her secret to the other kids in our class. Jess and I were no longer friends. It took me many years to realize why she wouldn’t speak to me and what I had done to upset her so much.
Sorry, Jess.

Once again, around the age of ten, I found myself trying to be friends with a girl from the trailer park. Kyla was quite dorky and slinky-like in her appearance. She had curly, black hair pulled back into a ponytail, the biggest teeth I had ever seen, and she laughed at everything—and her laughter was contagious. I didn’t have a crush on Kyla, but I thought she was cool. We were together all of the time—until I got busted with lipstick that I found on school grounds. After that, her mom considered me a bad influence, and wouldn’t even allow Kyla to talk to me. Can you believe that? I was the bad influence all of a sudden, go figure. Kyla was the last good friend I would have while living in the trailer park.

We ended up moving out of the trailer park and off to bigger and better places—to bright and shiny Boise, Idaho, where child molesters were few, houses made of tin were fewer, kids wore shoes, and I would meet my next crush.
I would be movin’ on up, and I liked it!

Chapter 2
Boise, Oh Boise

I hope I will someday understand
I hope I will someday see
I hope I will someday stop
This tear that wants to be…

We moved to a bright and shiny place called Boise, Idaho. I was elated at the fact that we no longer lived in a tin can, and I was feeling safer. Our new home was actually a block home and so were the houses around it. Our house felt upscale, especially considering where I had come from.
We occupied a standard home, three bedrooms and a carport, situated on a cul-de-sac. Kids played in the streets and there were cars, actual real life cars, which would drive down the busy streets that actually looked nice. The neighborhood wasn’t all trashy, like the trailer park, with a bunch of drunks or nasty broken-down vehicles all over the place. The houses were maintained and painted nicely. The yards were immaculate, the roads were paved, not gravel, and we had actual sidewalks. And the people were fully dressed and even wore shoes when they were outside. Our neighborhood looked really nice.
I lived here from the ages of ten and a half to fourteen and a lot happened while here. At first, it felt surreal, like a dream, but living in Boise had its own share of problems.
I was allowed to walk to school now, and there were a lot of other children. If an ambulance went by I could see it, and not just hear sirens all of the time, as I did at the trailer park. At the beginning, I was enthralled because when I waved to people, they would wave back. This was crazy cool. I loved it here—until the problems ensued at school.
Mom was still working hard cleaning houses, and she worked even more now that we lived in a little suburban-type neighborhood. The kids wore regular clothes and shoes. They didn’t walk around half-dressed and barefooted. This was like a whole other realm. It was like a brand new world. There were more people but less partiers. I couldn’t believe my eyes. After the initial shock, however, things started to go downhill quite a bit.
Before long, Mom and Norman weren’t doing well. One day they were together and the next day they were off again. So what did my mom do? She decided to date other people while still occupying the same household as my stepdad. A man named Tyler ended up sweeping Mom off her feet when I was eleven. They were very sexual—and not discrete whatsoever. Since both were very large people, when they had sex it was like two killer whales going at it. Once again, a man was taking my mom away from me. All I wanted was her time. This man didn’t like me—he pretended to—but it was a whole other story when Mom turned her head.
Tyler was a construction worker, and he was all construction—down to his hat, scruffy hair, and had big-time money…Mom was good at finding guys with money. The big boat, as it was referred to at the time, was the Thunderbird he had purchased for her. Thank God, they only lasted about nine months, which was nine months too long in my humble opinion.

At one point, I actually met a new friend. This little boy would come over and play while his grandma ran errands. This boy’s grandma would pay me by the hour, and I loved when this kid came over. I felt super important by this point. I not only considered him a friend, but also more like a son. I was watching him three or four hours daily. This meant that I was able to buy my very own six-pack of soda pop. I got to pay with my money, and I was mondo about it! His grandma was a drinking buddy of my mother’s, so I got to watch him often. I was also watching Simon and other kids as well. This is probably why I’m so great with kids today.
Although I only liked him as a friend, we became really close and had fun together. But unfortunately, I ended up losing another friend. Evidently, the state came in and grandma didn’t have custody—his mom did. When his mom was picked up for prostitution, his grandma tried to fight for custody, but didn’t win the battle. Once again, I lost my friend. It was tragic for me.
I had suffered through quite a bit of loss and abuse at a very young age. What I had witnessed, I would never wish on another. I tried to look at things as positively as possible—to see the lesson in everything—despite the circumstances. Continued here…

So if you have made it this far, I suspect I caught your attention. I’m currently looking for an agent or a real publisher to accept my work. I also have an indie film maker look at my book to see if it may be movie material. I’m not trying to be a millionaire off my book, but making a bit to carry through life would be ok. It’s more about reaching people across the world and showing them it’s “ok”. I’ve been working my whole life on opening up people’s eyes to what goes on behind closed doors. Whether it’s men, women, children, animals or whatever. What honestly scares me is knowing that it still goes on. I protect my children and my family to the greatest extent that I can. I try to keep drugs, alcoholism, abuse, violence, and everything bad away from them. Not because I feel they couldn’t handle it, but because I feel they shouldn’t have to. A child shouldn’t have to hear, “get me a beer”, or “you stupid asshole”, or “you are so fucking retarded”, or “pass the bowl”, or whatever else comes out of irresponsible parents mouths toward their children. This and more we deal with everyday with out even knowing we are doing it.
It’s much easier to just turn the other cheek and forget you heard what you heard or saw what you saw… until now…

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