The Pedophile Who Couldn’t Stop Calling Me

thoughtcatalog.com
thoughtcatalog.com

I went hog-wild as soon as I turned eighteen. My parents never let me go out or do anything as a teenager—I couldn’t have a social life, I couldn’t go out even if there were adults supervising, I couldn’t have friends come over, and I couldn’t even have a boyfriend.

Being under the oppressing thumb of strict and overly protective parents, the last few years of my adolescence were a very depressing time for me. Both parents had incredibly tough childhoods and struggled immensely as young adults. They were very hard on me, especially my mother, because her biggest fear was for me to repeat any of the mistakes she made.

Instead of talking to me about life, the error she made was isolating me from everything so I wouldn’t even have the chance to learn from any mistakes. Even though mistakes suck, they play a vital role in life, especially in your teen years as they ensure you evolve into an adult.

I was never able to experience that chance for personal growth as an adolescent, so as soon as I turned eighteen I went on a crazy power trip because I just wanted to do what I wanted to do.

Because of being sheltered and isolated a majority of my life, I got mixed up in the wrong crowd of people. On top of becoming addicted to prescription Adderall in high school, I developed other habits on the side to try to get back that lovely feeling each time I popped a pill.

During that time frame of trying to chase that high and find it again, (which at the time I didn’t understand exactly what addiction was) benzodiazepines, methamphetamines, and marijuana had become my best friends. I was a very dedicated and responsible worker and had enslaved myself to a private corporation by the time I was nineteen.

While everybody worked to live, I worked to party and chase a good high. It got so bad that I lived to get high every minute of my life and at some pathetic point, being high was the only thing that brought a smile to my face.

I grew torn and conflicted between cleaning up and staying high until the day I died. I already knew if I kept going the way I did, my days would be numbered. But at that time, I wanted to die. Life was of no value to me because I had lost so much faith in humanity.

I wanted nice things so badly, but I couldn’t have nice things because of my expensive drug habits. I felt so small while sober. I felt so weak and vulnerable, I had no faith or confidence in myself—and when I got high, the high embraced me. The high loved me, the high lifted me up to where I felt I had belonged—and that high gave me the confidence that I lacked.

If it weren’t for drugs, I never would have been in the places I have been and I never would have accomplished what I have.

I have been clean for five years now—financially, securely, and mentally I am in a better state of mind than I ever was, but deep down there is still that broken and insecure woman with no confidence or faith in herself.

Because of drugs, I have had many close calls with jail, death, or overdose. I’ve had several close calls with really messed-up individuals who could have either, hurt, raped, or killed me. But at the time, I was too high to care or even realize that.

Because of being high a majority of my young adulthood, I spent a lot of time being careless and not watching what I do—risky things such as meeting people online.

The story you are about to read is true, but this goes back into my dark place, before I realized I was an addict and understood what addiction was.

I was twenty years old and I worked for a privately owned chain of grocery stores throughout Oklahoma. I had to bust my ass to prove my worth over there and had done so well that they threw me into the meat department.

It was very rough at first. It was excruciatingly and emotionally draining and exhausting—my first few weeks there, I would go straight home and lock myself in my room and cry because I had a hard time adjusting. The department head was a straight-up asshole who had something against me from the get-go and constantly chastised me for being “stupid” every morning.

It bothered me because I hate being told that I suck at what I do—I knew that if I didn’t do something right, I would get demoted back to a cashier and lose my raise plus a guaranteed forty hours. I needed the money to pay for my drug habits.

It was my third week in the meat department. On the day in question, a lot of the meat went bad because the coolers kept going down. I kept having to pull everything and put it back and it was a disaster. Thankfully, it was payday so the first thing I did was call up my drug dealer when I got off work.

I bought an ounce from this guy, and he gave me a good deal for some Valium. So I go over to my best friend’s house and we get super wasted. The next day, I took a road trip to Stroud, Oklahoma with her because she and her boyfriend were about to get their own place and they needed furniture.

Of course, she contacted these people via Craigslist. And what did we do? We rolled a couple of joints for the road. So in a high and careless haze, we went to the middle of nowhere in bum-fucked Stroud, OK.

We were very lucky that these people were legit and nice—I mean, they handed them and gave them a lot of free stuff. Apparently the woman’s husband came back from Iraq on medical leave and he received a huge settlement from his military branch and they were able to get everything brand-new for their house and they wanted to give their old stuff away to people who needed it.

They were very nice people, and fortunately for us, everything went smoothly. We made it back to her house safely, I spent another night with her before heading home and what was there to do? Chill in the garage and smoke some more weed.

I got home and the next day I made it through work and went to my other hangout spot which at the time was this apartment complex behind my neighborhood. Everyone knew me there because I grew up over there, and I was always welcome at everybody’s pad. I was literally the drug fairy and if I kicked it with you and liked you, you were going to get fucked-up with me.

I did my partying for the evening and got the munchies once I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I went home to eat, passed out, and then woke up to a phone call from my best friend about two hours later.

At this point it’s about five thirty in the evening. My ring tone for her was set up as a song by Def Leppard—“Pour Some Sugar On Me.” I woke up to the flashy guitar intro.

“What’s up girl?” I asked her. She sounded kind of nervous when she was talking with me.

“I just thought I would call you and let you know that someone might call you in a few minutes,” she told me apprehensively.

“What do you mean?” I asked her. I sighed deeply. I had just woken up from a weed and Valium coma and this is what I was dealing with already. I had no clue what she was talking about.

“We went out to meet this guy on Craigslist—” she blurted. “He had a stove for us, but he is a bit weird… he wanted me to just come by and hang out and then he told me he needed a babysitter so I gave him your number!” She blurted it out fast, trying to hold a chipper disposition in her voice.

My face instantly inverted into a grimace. Why did she give a weird guy my number if she knew what a weirdo he was in the first place? There was a long pause on my end of the receiver. Who was this guy? I had specifically told her I was no longer babysitting for anyone, especially after an evening of watching her cousin’s three brats. Before I could interject, she quickly ended the conversation.

“I know you babysit so I thought I would give him your number in case you need the money. He’s offering to pay you! Well, I have to go, so I will talk with you later!” She instantly hung up the phone.

That little bitch…

I was running low on Valium and weed, so I reasoned with myself that I should probably give this guy a chance because I could use the money for drugs.

No sooner than when that internal thought cloud popped into my head, my phone was ringing but this time, it was from a private number. With much tension and apprehension, I answered the phone.

It was him…

“Hello?”

“Hi, are you the babysitter?” he asked me. His voice sounded so pleasant and a little too enthusiastic for my taste.

“Yes I am,” I told him, trying not to sound too brusque. But It was too late for that I suppose…

“That’s great!,” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with relief. “I need a night to myself and I just don’t know what to do with her anymore…”

All I could do was roll my eyes and listen. Did he want me to babysit her or was he going to proceed to tell me his life story? I was pacing around the kitchen at this point as I listened to him and it was so much, I had to sit down at the table.

“She is twelve now and she is starting to notice boys!” he ranted. “When she is in bed at night, I go to check on her and I catch her playing with herself…”

My heart skipped a beat. Who was this man? Before I could say anything else, he proceeded with his rant.

“Sometimes I just can’t help it and I lean into the doorway and watch…I mean, if she wasn’t my daughter, I would fuck her myself!” he exclaimed, his voice twisting with savage and carnal lust.

There went the arrhythmia of my heart—I was horrified, flabbergasted, and at a loss for words. My ass was glued to the seat at the dining table. This dude had me so scared, I was afraid to move. It felt as if I was in a thriller movie and there was a possibility he was in my house and creeping up behind me. I had no clue what to say or do.

“So…you sound kind of cute,” he said. At this point I am almost hyperventilating and am getting ready to have a panic attack. I was shaking and I damn near pissed myself.

“Tell me, have you ever had sex with a demon or a dead body?” he asked me. At this point, everything turned red and I blew a gasket and flipped out on him. All I remember is telling him to fuck off and went banshee on him until he hung up his end of the line.

As soon as he hung up, I bolted upright out of the chair and ran like hell to the living room. I called up my best friend and I cussed her out for giving my number to that guy. At that point I knew why she did it, too. Over the years when someone was too weird for her, she would pawn him off on me because she knew I wasn’t afraid to run them off and be a bitch.

After I got off the phone with her, it suddenly dawned on me that my mom could change my number because she was a call agent for our cellular provider company. My mom was napping in the room.

Being the middle child, I was always the self-sufficient and independent one. I never, ever went to my parents for anything unless I absolutely had to. I tiptoed to her room and slowly opened her door. She was napping and snoring away. I deeply sighed…

“Mom…” I called out in the lowest voice possible. I had to call her out an additional five times.

I had to explain everything that happened, and much to my shock, she didn’t flip out or go Yankee on me for doing such a stupid thing. She immediately called her company and got my number changed for me.

I would love to say that it all ended happily ever after but there is more…

Two years later, I am still a drug addict but at this point, I’ve started realizing it. I just turned twenty-two, and all while finally realizing I am a drug addict, I met this guy who swept me off my feet to the point where we instantly committed to each other.

I met him through the mother of his children—we were roommates and even though I am consciously aware that I made my own choices with my drug habits, she certainly did not help my situation. She was a drug addict herself, and she enabled me, opening that doorway to help me have easier access to get what I wanted.

At this point upon meeting this gentleman, I was so tired of the drugs. I wanted to clean up, and I wanted to get my life and act together. So I packed up our things and we moved. I had enough money each week to pay for a hotel room, some groceries, cigarettes, and the occasional cab. I moved into the room to get away from her and I could not go to my parents because I didn’t want to disappoint them by admitting I was a drug addict.

We did a lot to avoid situations with amphetamines, and things were going relatively well even though I was feeling sick and having withdrawal. I proceeded to ignore these problems and continued to work and do what I had to do to maintain my room. Time passed, and I came home from work one day to see my boyfriend looking absolutely spooked out, like he saw a ghost. I asked him what was wrong and after insisting, he finally told me what happened.

Some man called up our room, asking for a babysitter for his twelve-year old daughter, then proceeded to tell him the same story that was told to me two years prior! But this guy offered to let my boyfriend watch and started giving him price quotes.

My boyfriend at the time hung up the phone. And the creep tried to call back several times after that. After enough time, though, the creep decided to call on the wrong day because I answered the phone and by the time I was done with him, he never called again.

The horrific part that never ceases to cross my mind is how that person called. It had to have been someone who scoped the place out because he always called when we arrived to our room, and we switched rooms frequently. Yet he always knew which room we were in every time he called.

What’s even more messed up is that I still have no idea if the person who kept calling me in the room was the same person who called my cell phone two years prior. Was it the same person, or was it coincidental?

Or could it have been the transgendered prostitute that frequented around the motel?. She was a whack-job. We tried the roommate thing to try to hustle extra money for cigarettes and our roommate at the time invited her into our room…and both of them started smoking crack right in front of us!

I had a really unsettling and horrible feeling about her before, but after she took a crack blast she went on an insane rant that made absolutely no sense. I finally told her to leave my room, for obvious reasons.

Weeks later, the police are knocking on several doors. We thought they were warrant sweeps but it turns out they were looking for her—she was arrested for prostitution and trafficking a minor under fourteen. She was pimping out a twelve-year old girl!

So who exactly called my phone two years ago? Who exactly was calling my room?

The way all of this has unfolded is eerily uncanny and still has me lifting my brows and asking questions. But if you used drugs, this is the kind of life you can expect to have. TC mark

More From Thought Catalog