Kristi told me that the first time she can remember it happening was in the barn. She was 10. Her father tied her spread-eagle between the posts, and threatened that if she told he would kill her dog, or worse. Over the years he removed every option for escape. He made her swear on a Bible that she craved sex with him and wanted to be his wife. That canceled out Christian Salvation for her. He said that if she died he would cut out the parts that he liked best, freeze them and enjoy them at his leisure. That removed suicide as an option. Her mother blamed her, painted “Father Fucker” on her bedroom door, tried to stab her, sent her to her dad for his use when he was irritable. Neighbors reported something was going on, but the police sent her back home. Teachers and preachers ignored the signs.

By 17 she was having her forth abortion, this one in a hospital, all of them of her father’s semen. Her first abortion was by a school mate hitting her hard in the abdomen. The second and third were by coat hanger wielded by girls in the bath room at school. She preferred to let her fellow students think that she was slutty, rather than tell them she was having sex with her father. By this time, of course, he had her convinced that it was her fault; he couldn’t help himself; she had seduced him. Sex was what she was made for.

Jump to the birth of her son, conceived by another and adopted out at birth. She grieves the loss every year at his birthday. Jump to her marriage to an abusive man much like her father. She left him. Jump to mental hospital stays where she was misdiagnosed and mistreated, tied down, drugged, seen as dangerous to others. A male therapist had her sit on his lap and talk dirty. She felt something move below her.

Jump to living on the streets and prostitution. Jump to drug and alcohol induce stupors, slashing her body, douching with bleach, purging meals, missing time, voices in her head. Jump to the death of her best woman friend, murdered by the woman’s boy friend after repeated warnings from Kristi to stay away from him, and rejection by her friend for doing so. Jump to an abusive same-sex relationship. Jump to Mike, whom she believed when he told her that he loved her and they would marry. Jump to the end when he told her that the only reason he stayed with her was for the sex. Jump to her suicidal screwing of 7 men in two weeks. “The only thing I am good for is sex. I can’t kill myself, but maybe they will.”

Jump now to just out of the hospital. She wisely checked herself in because she needed detox from a bottle of scotch per day for several weeks. She knew she was going to die soon if she kept on. She is back in her apartment. She keeps it very sparse and neat. Sparse because she is very poor, on SSI, unable to hold a job, prostituting for car repairs. Neat because she tries to cope with the confusion and filth she feels inside.

A new addition to her apartment is a cage. She wanted a cat or rabbit to ease her loneliness, but she couldn’t save the money for a $250 deposit. She did manage the $50 cage and a $3 rat, but the rat bit her repeatedly, so she took it back. She is considering a Gerbil. She needs something cuddly to care for, something to love and to be loved by without the agony of sex. The one thing that she really wants, that we all want, is for someone to love her, not as a sex object, but as a person. She longs for it and she is suspicious of it. She has never had it. She has cared for many people. They took but gave little back.

Charlie, the old man down stairs, perhaps offered her the best deal. He demanded time and tolerance. She often cleaned his filthy apartment, but he repaid her with appreciation and respect nested deep in his rude abrasiveness. She found him when he died. She misses him.

I have met few women more deeply wounded than Kristi. Yet, she is not beyond salvation. Her vengeance is nearly all turned inward. She does not betray and abuse others as she has been. A few dollars, car repairs, a computer link to the outside world, these things would help, but would not suffice. The missing essential is an abiding friendship, someone to see her as the match girl that she is, someone secure and warm enough to take her in and give her a permanent place at their emotional hearth.