If we’ve spent even a half of a second talking to each other, then you know that all 5’2 of me is constructed of profanity and ego. Not really even necessarily in that order.
Here is why.
I’m f*cking awesome. This is not new news, it’s just a well-known fact. You take that however you want to, back row, but the fact still remains at the end of the day, I’m not over here glowering at people who are working their dreams. I’m dead set on working mine.
*waves well-manicured hand in the damned direction of my dreams*
Yea, this, a little of that, and some more sh*t. If you’ve been here a while, you’ve heard me talk of my pet-friendly domestic violence shelter, my tiny village. It’s something that I really am willing to give my own life for, if that’s what becomes necessary, the same way I go into these situations with these women full well understanding it’s probably not the smartest sh*t I do.
It’s what has to be done though. And since nobody is beating down my door telling me the position has been filled, I’m still getting up every day and assuming I better get my ass out there and spread the word about these statistics, and what happens when you pretend that it’s not a problem in the world you live in.
It’s a f*cking problem. Regardless of race, socioeconomic status, or the creed you claim, it’s present. And it’s a f*cking problem.
Today, I had the pleasure of speaking with someone who, unfortunately, knows me because of the work that I do. It is always the worst truth of my efforts, knowing when people talk with me, they remember exactly why and what led them to me. I’m never “Bitchface From The Party” or “Bitchface The Wind Caution Tosser”.
I’m always the Bitchface who is somewhere at 3am in the bubble Caprice waiting on some chick’s drunk ass piece of sh*t baby daddy to pass out so I can get her and her go bag out the door.
F*ck it. I could be worse things.
But, when I spoke with Bruce today, much like any other time, it lights a fire under me. Here’s why: the man believes in the sh*t I’m out here working. And all these waves I’m constantly making. And there is something about being seen as a force that makes you need to be one. If that’s making any sense, I know sometimes I don’t, but I swear, I circle back around if you give me enough time.
The reason that today ended up with me ironing my good cape is he mentioned to me a friend of his, a combat wounded veteran, wanted to get a project going that had some similarities to my own, but for vets. A little village of them, getting the help they need in a place created for them, where they can get their lives in the order they feel it needs to be in.
And Bruce said to me, “what better place than surrounded by a bunch of combat wounded vets?”
Literally, nobody is f*cking with that. That’s like the safest place on the planet for the type of community I would like to create for these women. Where they can focus on getting their life on a track that doesn’t put them directly underneath someone else to abuse them.
Flattered is an understatement, but also not the right term, I guess. When people associate me with things like what will hopefully be known as Abby Village eventually, it is always an inflation to my giant ass ego, as I just presume everyone knows I leap tall buildings.
But it’s also a sobering reminder of why we’re familiar with one another, and the events that led them to me.
I know that I come here and spout statistics and tell y’all to holler at me on the Bitchface line, and that I’ll come through in a pinch if you need me to. Please understand that isn’t lip service. You bet your ass I’ll come through. Every single time, because it’s part of my own personal assessment. I judge myself based on what I’m able to do to help these ladies be free.
So, me being me, and just assuming every person in life wants to be surrounded by my gorgeous hair and tremendously bad attitude at every junction in their life, I ask Bruce to put a bug in the gentleman’s ear. Because, yes, I am great company. Even when my good cape is at the cleaners.
Obviously, that’s why he brought it up was inferred, but it still moves me to tears every time we talk. See, his daughter was lost to domestic violence. She was Deputy Abby Bieber, the Hillsborough County Deputy I wrote about a year or so back now.
And, as with the loss of a child will do, you start to let your grieving lead you in the directions that you would want your baby to find you. You don’t want to be the angry drunk shouting at commission hearings, or the pill junkie nodding out while perusing scientific study results. You want everything that your baby was to mean something powerful.
You want to know that it wasn’t all for nothing. That the horrible pain you feel is for a greater good. That your child wasn’t just taken, robbed from you in the worst way, that it was a sacrifice you weren’t willing to make, but are making the best of anyway. He’s out here looking out for these women in my potential village, because someone stole his child, and what else can you do but try to prevent another person from living your nightmare?
Every single part of me understands that.
I’m tying this off tonight asking you, those of you who read me because you came to me for the work I do, hear me when I say this. Please don’t let your father be the one I’m talking about in this context. If you’re being harmed at home, you’ve heard the stats. I probably started our conversation with some, knowing me.
Please understand it happens to women from all walks, and it happened to me. You’ll meet no judgment here. I won’t tell a soul, either. You have my word. All 5’2 of Bitchface and ego, with a little profanity on the side, I’ll come for you. You just gotta tell me where to be, sis.
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Previously Published on Medium
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