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Held Captive: My Nightmare on Elm Street (Part 1)

Updated on October 16, 2019
SpottedCafe profile image

I attend the University of The Living. All my education comes from first-hand experience's life throws my way.

Before I Begin The Painful Journey, I Must Say This First ...

Am I Stupid?
This has to be the dumbest decision of my life. For right here, on Hubpages, I am going to tell a story that has remained dormant from within my scared walls. Placed in a state of scared to ever speak of what happened.
I Asked For Help
Although this is not a story per se, it resembles that of a nightmare that has been on me for way too long. Mostly out of fear of speaking up. For the very one who placed me in this nightmare to happen, ignored the tiny voice that spoke the truth in her ear. Instead, she listened to him. My plea. For help. Fell on deaf ears. Placed back into the hands of a lunatic. An unknown pedophile. A warp and disturbed soul who suffered himself from the effects of the war in Vietnam. Placed upon me.
Listen To A Child's Plea
Never will understanding come upon me to understand how the child I once was at 13 and 14 years old, had to experience a preventable, yet traumatic situation, only to be told to remain quiet about the happenings. This was to ensure no other would see the adult involved as the wronged party for having placed their own biological child into the hell that rained down on me. My mind will never grasp a child's voice not being heard. Especially when the one you trusted the most, is the very one who let you fall the hardest.
No Harm To Any
The truth of the matter is, my intentions now are to harm no one. But instead, to let the harm received within me out. To free my mind of the pent up worry that people will see me as damaged goods. To not care anymore on who cries about this, or will end up screaming at me for coming out with my story. As if seeking out attention. For if that was remotely close to the truth, this hidden story would not now be over 35 years old.
Alone Then to Now
Sadly, it was I who protected the adults involved. My lips were sealed. With that, at a mere 14 years old, this also taught who to trust. Who to sink into when the world was unfolding around me. Where to run when the storms gathered in. Where asking for help became something to frown upon. Surprises, still seen as possibly destructive happenings. Major holidays, nothing now but a ticking time bomb of reminders on the days I spent them all in captivity. Alone is where I find my best days. Where no one can let me down. Where only nature is what I care to embrace.
Nightmare on Elm Street
The pain that I encountered, along with the mental anguish, was never allowed to be talked about after being returned home. It was forbidden. Due to someone not wanting to be seen in the wrong way. Already scared from my "adventures" in Arizona, it took nothing to silence me. That, in turn, has kept me in nightmares. An ongoing nightly dilemma still fought today at the age of near 49. Way too long. And way to selfish of anyone to make me feel like it was I who had to protect them. What is even more bizarre than that, is how my nightmare literally happened on Elm Street in Tuba City, AZ. Less than one year before Freddy was brought to the screen. To this day, the house where I was held, still stands.

Left To Self To Learn What Alone Means

There is no place more lonely than feeling unloved and alone.
There is no place more lonely than feeling unloved and alone. | Source
The car resembled this one.  With no A/C. The muffler was loud.  Seats were leather & sticky hot.  The back seat received only the air that came in from the front windows.  The heat on the floorboard burned. Car smelled of booze & smoke.
The car resembled this one. With no A/C. The muffler was loud. Seats were leather & sticky hot. The back seat received only the air that came in from the front windows. The heat on the floorboard burned. Car smelled of booze & smoke.

The Day I Left in His Car

August 1983
Never will this day be forgotten. My parents were at it. Dad did not want me to go. The other parent had already decided, as two days before, she took me shopping. New deodorant, razors, maxi pads, hairbrush, toothbrush, and the hygiene product list goes on. I left with two pretty suitcases and a tote for all the stuff to keep me clean. Not a single day in my life up to this very day had my body ever seen dirty except when playing outside. Hygiene was the upmost importance in our home. As it should be in all homes. But after today, it would be forgotten about.
My Best Friend Waved Goodbye
My memory remembers my best friend at the time, Shelby, waving bye to me as the white car drove off. Perhaps it was the memory I created to help me survive the situation that is to come later on. I say this, as she told me she came over too late, and I was already gone. Due to the trauma, it is best I try not to figure this one out.
Scared of Flashbacks & Moments of Interruptions
I hear of victims of abuse going through flashbacks as they step back in time. The forgotten hell moments flooding in like a tidal wave. Gasping for air to overcome the newfound memory after it rested in peace in the depths of gosh knows where.

Sitting here now, thinking about how this could bestow upon me, being prepared for the possibilities is crucial. Having someone of trust to turn to, who will let me talk this out, will be the saving grace. Wanting none of that is not going to matter. A mind will decide what will happen next with memories. And I am scared. Along with the fact that my mind is already wandering through the pages of the days before the attacks began, trying to figure out what is of the utmost importance to share for my mental escape and peace. My apologies if I travel far, but know this, it does all fit together like a messed up puzzle.
The White Car: It Never Stopped
I turned to watch the streets of Newberry, Florida fall further behind me. Yes, I was excited. A trip was in the happenings. What 13 years old does not look forward to that? And due to my innocent mind knowing nothing about sex (taboo talk in my childhood home), never once did I feel in danger. I mean, this man was a friend of my parents. He attended Oak Dale Baptist Church in Jonesville, Florida. He broke bread every time he came for a visit. For the love of all good, he was also a registered nurse and a dedicated artist, where his art still hangs in many homes of today. And his real-life name was Charles. I refer to him as "Arizona", as that is easier to handle. Saying his name brings him back alive. Guess it makes no difference now what I call him. Wonder if bastard would be accepted here on Hubpages?
Well, to get back to it...
From Florida to Texas. Doing the speed limit of the then 55mph's, the car never stopped except for gas, some food, drinks, and his cigarettes and booze. I was feed, allowed to go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, add deodorant and wash up real quick at the local gas stops that are no longer in existence. Sleeping in parking-lots verse getting a hotel room. Looking back now, all that did was post-pone the attack on me to come.

I do not recall every single moment of every single minute while in the delusional custody of this bastard. Again, that goes back to memory lapses. I only recall the days up to Albuquerque, New Mexico as being light-hearted. The radio rang out with rock songs of my days, plus the "oldies" of his days. I listened to the war stories he spoke of concerning Vietnam. It was the first heard encounters with any Veteran on just how dirty it was over there on our men. He used words like "Agent Orange" and "Psychological Warfare". Things never taught to me before, nor anything I questioned. Seeing his face change as he spoke, with eyes beginning to squint, it was the beginning of the hell about to shine down.

In the backseat is where my butt remained. His son was in the front. I will speak no more on him. His story is for him. This is mine. But being in the back, given the chance to watch through the reflection of this man through the rear-view mirror. This is the time I began to feel the first ounce of un-comfortableness. I saw something. And I was scared.

In a New Mexico hotel, while taking a bath, I was waterboarded with Jack Daniels until I could not breath and drank it willingly to make him stop.  Just as he had planned.  At 13, a part of me died that night.
In a New Mexico hotel, while taking a bath, I was waterboarded with Jack Daniels until I could not breath and drank it willingly to make him stop. Just as he had planned. At 13, a part of me died that night.

Stopping Here ....

Time To Take A Mental Breather
I am doing okay. The old ticker is beating a little fast but my blueberry coffee is keeping my headache at bay. I have had one all day. A sign of the weather changing. Not a thing to do about my past. This pleases me. Arizona is not worthy of me having health issues over, anymore. In the next sentence though, it is becoming painfully clear a stop is needed at some point. This is when I will write out a plan and purpose for this painful journey of admittance to what happened on Elm Street.

Truth? I am unsure if my strength can even post this. If it is, then my strength is in question if it will remain on the reading list of mine. Being held captive and painfully hurt is not an inspiring story here on Hubpages. Heck, a part of me hopes they do not allow it. Another part does. Only because I know there are many others out there like me. I draw strength from knowing this, although I know them not.

There will be several parts to the coming out of this. If this goes live here on my blog, the next parts will come at will. When it is found the best time for me. Leaving some hanging in the need to know of what is next is not my intention. My only intentions are to set myself free. Once and for all. To bury my secret of silence, in the screams of truth.

I am a victim. I am also a survivor. I am both wrapped into one. This was not asked for. It was given to me. It was told of how I would remain trapped in it. Let me call it a liar. For once, and for all.


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