No Clever Title, Just Word Vomit

This post is going to be an insanely long tangent and I'm already apologising. I will bold the shit that might be funny/interesting to read. The rest is going to be word vomit and a terrible show of my character. Or something seemingly important to only me.

So last week when I posted, I wanted to talk about how I don't talk about the bad shit that happens here at work. I have no issues talking about the stupid whores or the crack addicts who try to come at me, but when it comes to talking about the women who get beaten in their homes and use my hotel as a 'safe haven', I tend to close up. Last week, I had a woman who came in and exhibited every single sign that she was a battered woman. I would have used her in a model to explain what the next night auditor should look for.

She was nervous, always looking out the door she came in, she did not park anywhere near the front so her van was hidden from sight unless you drove into my parking lot, she came in wearing only the clothes on her back and a really long jacket, and had a big purse. She walked like she had been beaten, and talked so quietly I turned everything loud off just to hear her. She teared up when I asked my roundabout question to confirm what I knew- when the front desk ever asks you if you'd like any calls forwarded to your room, or if you would prefer to not be disturbed, we either suspect you are hiding out and for a good reason, or you're a horny teenager with their girlfriend for a hot night.

At 3am in the morning, it was the former when I asked her and she did not want anyone to know she was here. I understood and quietly told her no one would bother her. I put her in a room away from everyone and left her to her own devices.

At 5am in the morning, something was clearly wrong when she checked out, worse for wear than when she checked in and talking senselessly about going to the hospital an hour away as opposed to the one ten minutes.

Then I noticed the blood.

I had no idea how I managed to not freak out, because I was hitting the wall of “Let's Remember When I Was The Bleeding Scared Girl” and I needed to not go through it at that moment. I kept calm, tricked her into going back into her room, called the cops and tried to keep her on the property because I was worried she had injuries that were worse than what I had originally thought. She obviously needed help, and I hate forcing it upon people, but, when there are bloody hands involved, I get to be a pushy bitch.

It wasn't until almost 620am that I learned it was a self inflicted reason. That the woman had more issues than her abusive husband, and that my hotel room was soaked in red. The officer wouldn't let me go any further than the door to which I let him in.

I think she lived?

That's the thing, about hotels. Cops and firefighters and other hot helpers, they come and they help you and they take away the problem to go and fix it somewhere else, but they never inform those who were involved or affected what the overall outcome was. I'd never know if she died. They had taken away all the evidence they needed that morning.

People don't like to hear about those kinds of stories. Or about what happens when the husbands come in looking, or the wives of a cheater come in knowing fully well that they are here, but I either can't or will not tell them. I legally cannot.

That, combined with my shock over dealing with it, combined with the stress of court, made me break a bit.

And then people started telling me how strong and tough and able I am to testify and how I should just suck it up and deal.

Um, no.

Fuck you.

Fuck you very much.

A lot of the people in my life do not know every single detail about my relationship with him. Or the aftermath, or the terror I lived with for weeks after. I was never worried about testifying against him. Ever. Fuck that worry. Bitch can't get up on the stand and tell the truth and nothing but the truth about how he woke me up with a kiss, went away for forty minutes in my car and came back to our bed after having brutally raped his ex? Bitch needs to be smacked good and hard.

I was freaking out and stressing and trying to show that I HAVE FUCKING WEAKNESSES, over the fact of having to actually SEE him again. I can tell you where I was, exactly, the last time we saw each other. Down the street from here, at the local Tim Horton's. I go there every night, and he knows this. He's only ever shown his face three times there when I was. Each time, he'd smile, or say something, or suggest that he was going to do something and it would make me want to scream.

He hasn't left a bruise on me. He hasn't emailed me in two years, almost to the fucking day, and he has not contacted me via cellphone even though my number has not changed in almost three years. He is smart. He knows all of that is traceable and with his fucking history, it would not look well.

Court was this week.

I did not have to see him, because he pled out. I have no idea what he got instead of the years in jail he was going to get, but he is not my imminent threat anymore. I don't know if he ever was, but I hate that I let him have that power over me.

I wasted two days of not working, and I am officially so stupid tired that my assessment test today should basically spank me without even trying. But I will find a way to get what I want. I always do.

I'm hoping this week, and the next, are lazy and boring and full of non grown up things, because I need a moment.

So I haven't died. I told y'all about the thing that freaked me the fuck out, and I admitted I have weaknesses. I think thats a pretty stellar vomit, don't you?