The Wicked Ingénue

I’ve been promising to post an update blog about the progress of my memoir, so here it is. If you’re fuzzy on what my book is about or you just found out that I’m indeed writing a book, the following is a brief synopsis. If you’re familiar with the nature of my memoir, feel free to skip to the second half.

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In 1999, I dropped out of high school at age seventeen, ran away from home, hitched a ride to Las Vegas, and moved in with a guy I’d had a one-night stand with (a guy I typically refer to as The Ex). I went to Vegas with nothing – no money, no car, no diploma, no support system (because, you know, I’d written everyone off), no work experience, no relationship experience, no life experience – and I had no idea where to start. After a shock period that lasted three months (I spent most of that time locked in The Ex’s bedroom [which was covered in posters of marijuana leaves and various porn stars] watching “Revenge of the Nerds” over and over and wondering if my parents had figured out where I was [which they didn't. It took them almost four months to discover the truth]), I finally landed a job as a dishwasher in a restaurant on the Strip.

While working at the restaurant, I met a girl who was a dancer in Siegfried and Roy’s show at the Mirage. She encouraged me to send my photo to the talent agency that represented her, which I did, and within a few weeks of doing so I’d landed my first professional dancing gig (belly-dancing at the Aladdin). I worked my way up from there and began to make a name for myself in the Las Vegas entertainment industry. While my career was soaring, my personal life was in the toilet. Not even the toilet – the fucking sewer. The Ex and I had only been together for a few months before he started physically abusing and cheating on me, and I put up with it for a year and a half until I caught him fooling around in our bed. He kicked me out and I had nowhere to go, so a week before the September 11th terrorist attacks, I moved back to California.

But it doesn’t end there. Against my better judgement, I went back to Las Vegas. And that’s when things got really bad.

I went back to dancing, and this time around I got involved in various vices including street drugs, prescription meds, excessive drinking, gambling, and casual sex. Although the abuse and cheating continued (except this time, the cheating was mutual), The Ex and I couldn’t completely stay away from each other. We were on and off constantly, but at this point I had a bevy of men to take care of me whenever we were off. I always ended up going back to him, though. And when I showed up to work drunk and drugged out of my mind one night, fell onstage, injured my knee, was subsequently fired and blackballed in the industry, got evicted from my house, and moved into a motel room, The Ex was the only one who’d have anything to do with me.

During the last year I spent in Vegas, I fell into a deep depression. I landed a job as a cocktail waitress on Fremont Street, and it was like taking a huge step backward. Then, after I was mugged at knifepoint one night after work, I quit that job and spent three months in bed, which was oddly reminiscent of the marijuana and porn star poster days. Throughout my life, writing and books had been my only solace, and I hadn’t written one word or touched a book in years. College crossed my mind often, but I thought my best days were behind me. I felt that the mistakes I’d made were irreversible and that I was doomed to live life in that shitty motel room on Las Vegas Blvd. with a man I’d grown to hate.

On March 30, 2005, The Ex and I were arguing over a phone call I’d received from an ex-lover. It was the worst argument we’d ever had, and unspeakable violence ensued. A neighbor called the cops, and The Ex was arrested. My face looked hideous – bruises and cuts everywhere, black eye, fractured nose – and I had no medical insurance or money to see a doctor. At that point, I was accustomed to being valued solely for my looks, and I’d grown to believe that was the only thing I was good for. With my face being in such bad condition, I was convinced my life was over. And with The Ex in jail, I had complete access to his pain and anti-anxiety medications. I took the remainder of his Xanax pills – I don’t even know how many I swallowed – and fell into a coma on the bathroom floor.

Miraculously (and as you can see), I survived. When I woke up on April 1st, I felt that I’d been given a second shot at life. I know that sounds cliche, but most people who’ve been near death can vouch that this is truly the feeling you have when you come to. I packed up my stuff and returned to L.A., intent on going back to school, writing, and chasing my dreams. With several publications under my belt, a nearly complete manuscript, and college graduation just around the corner, I’d say the chasing is in full force.

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Okay, so that wasn’t so brief. But you have no idea how much of the story I just skipped over. Seriously.

As many of you know, the process of writing this memoir has been difficult for me. The problem has more to do with the emotional/psychological challenges of retelling all of these awful events and less to do with the actual writing itself (although I have struggled quite a bit in regard to the structure and sequence of the story). Not everything about my time in Las Vegas was tragic – I have quite a few good memories as well – but most of the worst things that’ve happened in my life took place there, and I think about those things every day as a result of writing this book. I can’t just sweep them under the rug or put them in the closet like most people do. I mean, I could, but then I couldn’t tell my story with the honesty and integrity it deserves.

And then there’s the fear of making all of these things public. I never imagined I’d share half of the things I’ll be sharing in this book with anyone, let alone the entire world. And once these things are shared, there’s no going back. I will be criticized. I will be ridiculed. I will be used as a scapegoat in certain instances. I’m going to have to be stronger than I ever thought possible.

But then I think about how much good this memoir can do, and that’s what keeps me going. It can open up conversations about things our society doesn’t like to talk about. It can help other young women realize that there’s someone out there who understands the anger, the pain, the loneliness, and the unhappiness they feel and that they can overcome it. I’d like to use whatever success I have with this memoir to be an advocate for causes like domestic violence, addiction, family planning, women’s rights, and countless other things.

So that’s why, no matter how hard it is sometimes, I can’t give up. Therefore, you’ll be happy to hear that I’ll be taking this memoir project to graduate school in the fall, finishing it, and publishing it by the time I earn my MFA. It’s hard to say exactly how much longer it’ll be before you’ll see it in stores or as an e-book, but rest assured I’ll keep you updated. The only major change I have to report is that I’ve decided to condense the memoir into one volume instead of a trilogy as I’d originally planned.

The short of it is that yes, I’m still working on it, yes, it will be published, and yes, I’ll always remember the support you’ve given me during the process. Writers don’t acknowledge this very often, but we are nothing without our readers and supporters, and I want you all to know how much I appreciate your interest and enthusiasm in my work. It means so much.