You Can Just Call Me....

Everyone has a name on the street.






Budweiser, T-Bone, Rooster are three of my favorite guys. But I know the Tom, Jake, and Marcus behind the street names.




They always give me their "real" names in private and their street names in public.






At first, I found it a little weird. Were they trying to scare people? Did the nickname come after a stunt or incident? Were the monikers terms of endearment?






Then my mind went back to 1989. Before it became known as Taylor Swift's fifth album (and year of her birth), it was the year I experienced my own street life.






And I had a nickname.






Goldie, short for Goldilocks, and I loved it. Goldie had no fears. She was cool and she was fun.


She didn't worry about any fears or about being hurt. SHE did the hurting.




It was almost like a split personality.




The girl who'd been molested, raped, and ridiculed could safely hide and this new "personality" was in control.




Little did I know at the time that my fear-no-evil persona was actually evil incarnate.




I remember the time well. I hung out at a seedy bar where a girl with my upbringing was treated like a princess. Want to feel good about yourself? Go find a group of people worse off than you.




These guys were on the local Crimestoppers segment nightly.




Once, a girl gave me an envelope with the instructions to open it only if she didn't return. She was headed out of town with one of the mugshot owners above. Apparently she wanted to point police in the right direction if she was killed along the way.




She returned.


I never opened the envelope.




Another time I was forced into the driver's seat after the guy I was traveling with was pulled over. He had a suspended license and was on parole; I took the fall. (I've met many women in prison since then serving time for someone else's crime.)




The alcohol and the drugs buried the feelings of guilt, shame, and fear. I believed I'd overcome the past hurts when all I really did was stuff them down farther and pile new ones on top.




I might have thought I was in control but Satan was my puppet master.




At a party I was handcuffed to a bed and raped.


At another party I was held down and shot up with heroin.
A mentally ill drug dealer stalked me at school and work, threatening if he couldn't have me, no-one would.


Sometimes I wasn't a victim at all. Like the time I went to a party to buy drugs and didn't leave that house for two months. I lived on a diet of cocaine and water.




For the record, I met that drug dealer through a fellow N.A. member. The best "connections" can be found in the signatures and phone numbers of A.A. and N.A. books. That was the first thing I burned when I got saved.




My nickname also served another purpose.




It allowed me to separate from the abominable things I was participating in. It wasn't me; it was Goldie.
There was no mental illness. It was a spiritual battle, through and through. I'd just joined the wrong team.




When I'd go home, I was just me. I'd sip hot chocolate and play SORRY! with my sister, help Mom in the kitchen and enjoy swing talks with Dad.




But on the streets, I was still Goldilocks.




I wasn't sure which one I liked more, which one I wanted to be. I now know the battle in my head was mirroring the war for my soul.




So when I first realized everyone on the streets had two names, I was confused.


But then, I remembered.




And I understood.




They are having the same battles in their heads while the same war is being fought for their souls.




And THAT is why I do what I do.