DIXON, josephine marla

[JOSIE MARLA DIXON]

[atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 460px; background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/34fb0ns.jpg);-moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; -webkit-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; border: 4px ridge #cbc5ca, bTable][tr][cs=2] JOSIE MARLA DIXON. NINETEEN. LOCAL. MONA JOHANNESSON.

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I was born at sea. My parents used to be travelers, with an incurable case of wanderlust, and so they graced one country after another with their presence. When I picture it, I always sea my Mother taking the lead and pulling my father along with her, charming the people she met with her wonderful smile and her quirky sense of humor. But for all I know, the scene that I play out in my head could be wrong. I was never blessed enough to share a word with my mother, or even see the smile break out on her face. She died giving birth to me, leaving this crying bundle of blood and tissue in my Father's arms. He said when I opened my eyes, he saw her in me. He said he fell in love with her all over again, as he saw me. I have my Mother's eyes. My Father's hair. Her hips. His nose. Her smile. His laugh. I'm the perfect combination of the both of them. Their one and only product. so of course it was good fortune that I turned out perfect. That's what he'd tell me, anyway. Like the series of unfortunate events that followed were a result of that, like it was fate that justified what he did to me. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I haven't tell you where I grew up or what kind of place it was for me, and I want to, because if I'm spilling forth this gut-wrenchingly humiliating story of my life, I want you to know it wasn't always this bad, and once upon a time I had something to smile about. From what I know, my Father brought me to Orange Country, as a toddler. He grew up here, born and raised in California, and he wanted to return to his roots. He married a woman called Santana, and I grew up thinking of her as my mother. She wasn't a particularly a nice one, nor did she go out of her way to treat me with love, but she was a constant fixture in the background of my innocence and childhood who at least clothed and fed me. She had two boys of her own, whom she'd had out of wedlock. They were dirty and foul-mouthed and bullies, but they were my brothers and they let me play with them. Well, no, saying that is wrong. They didn't let me play with them, they played with me. I was their toy, their doll, the one that ended up covered in their feces or pushed off a high chair as they experimented with their natural curiosity, the one who Santana had to rescue from under a hot iron just before they had the chance to leave a scar that would have lasted a lifetime. I may not have any physical scars of that time, but I think my brothers left an incurable mark upon my soul, though I like to think they meant well for me. There was running around in the sand under the hot sun, the ocean kissing the shore as we chased shadows on the beach, and a hot fire, always a hot fire. I remember huddling up next to it as I listened to the raised voices from the kitchen, and I found it odd if ever there was a night when it was absent. I thought it was only natural for your parents to be unhappy, and it wasn't until I started attending school that I realized otherwise. But still, I had a home to come to, and a meal to fill my belly. I had a mother and a father, and I thought I was one of the most blessed kids in the world. I didn't find it odd when my Father stole kisses from my lips, either, I took it as a sign that he loved me. And I think he did, I think he always did, but that he loved my mother just a little more, and her death twisted him up badly. How else can I excuse and love him after what he put me through? I was five when he first put his hand between my legs. His fingers were rough, and I cried, but he rocked me against his chest and whispered how it was okay. He'd trace kisses down my necks as I slept, things I woke up to but never let on that I knew, because I was afraid. I was sleeping when he first pulled down his pants and tried to put something between my legs - I think he was drunk, and he fumbled, and he ended up falling asleep on top of me. I was so scared and so terrified that night. I wanted to get out from under his body but I didn't have the strength to. It wasn't until Santana found us that morning that I moved out, my body cramped and my shoulders heaving with sobs. I wanted her to take me in her arms and make me hot tea. I wanted her to tell me Daddy was sick and that it wouldn't happen again. Looking back now, I see her eyes were torn and her antics were frantic. She took me aside and slapped me, another scar on my diseased soul that would never wash away. She told me I was a bad girl and I mustn't speak of this to anyone, or I'd be punished. She made me mop the floor and wash the dishes and other household chores all day, and I shuffled about weeping and doing them because I thought I was a bad girl, and I deserved it. But looking back, I think it was the way she thought she could keep me away from my Dad. Maybe she wasn't altogether the best mother figure, but this is why I know I was cared about, and this is why I want you to know my life wasn't all bad. Still, I can't say the abuse left me unaffected. Specially because he became a more frequent visitor to my bedside. Specially because he'd touch me in places I'd never been touched before. Yet he didn't enter me till I was eight, even though he did other things. From my innocent point of view, when he placed his genitails between my lips and came, he was only peeing, and it was only natural. The throwing up came afterwards, of course, and for some reason I couldn't explain to myself I was scared and terrified and coudn't stop crying. I kept telling myself I must have done something to deserve it and found excuses to justify it, but in the end I told myself it was all my fault, and so I shunned myself away from society because I considered myself too dirty to be worthy of people. During then, I grew closer to Santana. She was always sorry, she was always making me do something, but I could sit with her in silence and she wouldn't make me feel as dirty as I believed myself to be. Sometimes in the morning she would help me clean up, she'd nurse the bruises on my skin and wipe away a tear, before she turned away and her voice turned cold and she told me not to speak of him. Yet when I was ten she left my Father, she left with her two boys and she ran away. I haven't seen her since. Without Santana to look after him, my Father fell ill, and I spent the next few years perfecting housework and doing chores so I could look after him, as I considered my due duty. I wasn't abused as much then, mostly because he was too sick to. Some weeks he was unable to attend work, but the money left over in his bank account got us through the rough times. It was during those days that he started telling me about my Mother, and though at first it broke my heart to know Santana wasn't my Mom as I assumed her to be, I was glad and heartened to hear this angelic description of a mother instead, and I started looking up at heaven and believing she was looking down on me. Maybe I have a glorified image of her in my mind, but I think she was the thing that kept me sane during those days. I'd attend school, get okay grades, spent as much time as I could outdoors on the beach which was my haven, then come back to look after my Mother. When I was thirteen, he started getting better, though he was still weak, and though he was still ill. He got better, but he seemed to live in a constant delusion that I was Marla, his wife that had died, and the next few years were turbulent because the relationship I had with my father can only be described as unhealthily incest, though I never returned any of his affections and though I always cried when he penetrated me. I was lost and confused and didn't know what to do, and maybe if I'd screamed I could have escaped him. I'd gotten my periods at 11, and from then I was at a constant fear of getting pregnant. I didn't have any friends nor did I ever have a boyfriend, my life was warped around my Father in ways that twists and breaks me and makes me weary to think about it. I was in my junior year at high school, though, when I was paired up in the lab with a brazen girl with flaming red hair who seemed to take a keen interest in me, though I kept to myself. She kept inviting me over to her place, a friendly gesture which I turned down at first, but no matter how hard I tried to keep my distant, she was always there. In the end I gave up and got used to her company, and viola, I had friends. Her crowd instantly accepted me, maybe because they respected her so much, and though I never revealed anything about myself we all got along wonderfully. We had good times and bad, we laughed and we cried, we watched movies and danced in the rain - I was so carefree and happy, maybe for the first time in years, and I should've known then that a worse time was coming. So, as it happened, I got knocked up by my Father. It wasn't until I missed my period for three months that I realized it - apparently my Mum had never thrown up when pregnant for me either - and broken and crying, I finally sobbed a fraction of my story to my friend. I expected her to be horrified, and she was. I expected her to leave me and have nothing to do with me, wash herself away from this disgusting, shameful creature that I was, but she didn't. She insisted, demanded, that I come to live with her, though I knew that she was poor and lived in the shacks, and yet this girl was offering me a whole new world. I think that was when I realized that I was in love with her. And if I weren't, I probably wouldn't have done it, but I was afraid and in love and fear and love are our most motivating emotions. And so I ran away from home. And so I shacked up with my friend. And so when I had a miscarriage and the blood wouldn't stop flowing down my legs for almost thirty nights, I had someone who held my hand and looked after me. No, I never confessed that I was in love with her to her, and eventually I moved on. She got married and left Valkyrie, on the arms of the most handsome and wonderful husband, and I am truly very happy for her. She helped me escape from a world I was trapped in, gave me the courage to start over and made me feel better about myself, though I could never fully cleanse my soul of the guilt that suffocates me. When I found out my Father had passed away only a few months after I abandoned him, I was wrecked with grief, and guilt too, not only because I left him but because there's a part of me that's relieved he isn't of this world anymore - and to be honest, I still am, so I don't like to think about it. I am no saint - I'm a broken mess, constantly riled down with guilt and grief, too hard on herself and unable to forgive the person who maybe deserves to be forgiven - myself. I blame me for everything wrong that has ever gone in my life, maybe because I know there should be a justifiable reason for any human being to suffer so much. I love too much and care too much, about anyone and everyone I'd come across, but maybe that's compensation for the fact that I feel I'm not good enough or worthy enough of their company. My friend used to tell me I was too insecure, that I needed a therapist to make me feel good about myself, that I needed to learn to let go of the past - but she hasn't inhibited this body and gone through the trauma that I have, she hasn't lived every day trying finding reasons to keep herself alive when all she wanted to do was bleed the fucking dirty blood out of her body, wash away the sins and come out clean. I am such a whore, a bitch, a flake. And I don't know, I get so sad sometimes. Like this heaviness sitting upon me, that I can't put into words. And I want to sob or cry it out but it's not even there, yet it's killing me side. It's not an emptiness. I don't even know how to describe a sadness that heavy. It's beyond the realm of violins and sad songs, it's the resonating emptiness in the chasm of a broken soul. And yet I still want to believe there is beauty in the world, and the world has something good left to offer. And yet I'd still like to believe that there's someone out there who would one day save me. *journal extract: I keep waiting on things to change, for all the bad feelings to just go away. But in vain. All the devious methods I employ just to keep myself distracted, to keep myself from falling, are hopeless. I can’t cry, though I want to, because I know crying won’t be enough. It won’t cleanse me, it won’t make me feel any better. What does a woman who has no hope hold onto? Life, it ebbs and it flows. I stopped living it a long time ago. I stopped caring what would become of me when I stopped breathing, I stopped caring what would would become of me, tomorrow. I do what I do to get through the day, and usually, it involves running away from myself. But where do I go when I can’t leave myself behind? I wish, just for a day, that I could be someone else. That I wasn’t weighed down by the history that has colored my life a desolate shade, that I wasn’t crippled by the wounds that still bleed. I always wanted a savior. But then I woke up to the fact that no one is that selfless, no one is that self-sacrificing. When people see me weeping, they turn their faces away - it’s a burden on them to watch this helpless little girl who has nothing more to give to the world, slowly fade away. They know they can’t make it better, who can mend what’s broken beyond repair? But I fucking wish that they’d at least try, because I’m a mess and I can’t do this alone. I’ve been fighting, too long, and I just want a place to rest my weary head, just for a while. I want someone to tell me it’s going to be okay, though I know it’s not. I just want someone to care enough to comfort me, even when we both know the end has come and taken me. I am a dreamer. And I build myself these castles in the air, these ridiculous fantasies, just so that bit easier to carry on. Wearing a smile on my face comes easily - it’s not a painted mask I wear to deceive. Its just that, once all those layers fall away, underneath the curtain there’s a cripple, a wicked, filthy little beast, wailing on the world to come save her. If only I weren’t kicked in the shins and brought down to my knees every time I gathered the strength to run, and keep running. If only what had been was forgotten, buried beneath the sands of time, away from judging eyes, away from twisted ears, away from stone-cold hearts. I see their disgust in their eyes as they look at me, burning into my back and leaving me stripped, bare, of whatever good reputation I had. They never ask, they judge. They never give, they take. Slowly, bits and pieces of me, they destroy it. I am strong, but there is only so much of a storm one can weather - I’ve been caught in the gale far too long, I think I got lost on my way out. I think I keep forgetting to save myself. I think I keep forgetting myself. - - -end Anyway. I still wanted to finish high school, but it was tough. I was working a grocery store to get through the day, since my friend couldn't exactly support me. I wanted to pass with flying colors so that I could at least do something with myself, but it gets harder to focus on words when there's a war raging inside of you. Yet I did pass with okay grades, and I guess for a moment in time, I was proud of myself for that. I even celebrated, went to a party with my friends, ended up randomly hooking up with a man. The most normal my life had ever gotten, I think, but it didn't last long. In the morning he paid me money and told me I'd been a wonderful hooker, and as he walked out of the door I laughed, because at some point the tragedies stop being funny and start being highly comical instead. It was so ridiculous and so sad and pathetic, but there I was holding dough in my hands, not feeling any dirtier than usual - actually, I was feeling less dirtier than usual to have done it with someone other than my Father, and so the prospect of it didn't seem so bleak. No, I didn't just jump into it, I tried to make ends meet by working at the grocery store, but at some point I had to wake up from my self-induced denial that this would be enough for me - my friend was going to get married soon and move out of the apartment, and then I'd have to pay the rent all by myself, too. So that's how I fell into prostitution. Everyone has this concept in their minds, that prostitution is a horrible job, but it isn't, not really. I guess it all depends on the House you work with. This is the one place where luck finally worked out for me, I suppose, because where I work at, the Mr. And Mrs. of the House are good and kind to their girls. There are a set of business rules that you have to follow, things that'll keep you safe and protect you, and as long as you abide by it, we don't get my trouble. Of course it's hard work, specially on public holidays at the end of the month where customers come full of cash and demand the best treatment - but after a while, it just becomes a regular job and you stop being so terrified of it. Some of the customers are horrible, some of the regulars are wonderful, and though we can turn anyone away when they chose us, I tend to go with everyone because I'd like to think I can take any experience. Also, I've nothing to lose, so what harm can it do? Maybe it's this fact that has made me one of the star girls at the House, Mr. and Mrs. dote on me. In a way, they're the most parental figures in my life right now. I'm popular with the customers, but I grow weary that any of them might recognize me in real life. Which is why I tend to dress down when outside, it's something all prostitutes live with, I guess. But, I'm supporting myself. I'm getting through the day. I have my hands so full I don't have to give much thought to my broken soul anymore, and so that's a blessing in disguise. And I have a couple of acquaintanceship around, people who've worked in the business with me as long as I have. We're weary about newcomers, but the girls who stuck it out tend to stick together. I have lead a pretty decent life outside my job, even though at a point I began to consider my job decent too, but I've never experimented with substance. Lately though, I've been growing curious. After all, I've got nothing to lose, so why note experience the full life? *extra's; family martin anthony dixon, father, deceased marla romania dixon, mother, deceased santana angelie dixon, step mother, whereabouts unknown travis christopher dixon, step brother, whereabouts unknown brandon hughes dixon, step brother, whereabouts unknown

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KIND. BROKEN. SAD.
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SCARR TISSUE

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[ACE]

ACCEPTED!

Oh my goodness. 3': Poor girl. I'm at a loss of words. Wonderful app. Sad, though. Very sad. Don't forget to face claim!