3. My mom said, "no" to my pediatrician, Dr. Milton, when he suggested that I'd be institutionalized. I am too young to remember this, but I do know that my mother*, armed with a doctorate in child psychology, refused to believe that this was any way to treat a severely autistic child. Instead of pretending that I didn't exist, she proactively did her best to help me thrive and succeed in the world beyond my anomalous perception
filters. She didn't do everything right, but she created a strong foundation for my success. The Vas that you know today would not be possible without her.


* My mom has two doctorates and a law degree, for those of you who might be wondering.

1. When I was kicked out of a sexual assault group for having a PTSD incident and telling someone after the meeting that she didn't have to be a victim.  I was told at the meeting that it was confidential and that we weren't supposed to discuss what we talk about with the outside world.  Frankly, those are the same kind of tactics abusers use to control their victims, so I will share my experience.
   
   At that point in my life, my husband and I were having horrible marital problems over my in-laws, the agony that was our sex life, and the fact that I was sexually assaulted by a scary individual.  I had nearly been convinced by a well-meaning counselor at that particular organization that my problem was my involvement with modeling and exotic dancing, and that "victimhood" wasn't my fault.  She thought it would be a good idea for me to be put into a group so I could learn that I wasn't "alone".  At first, the group was nice.  We made crafts, talked about our feelings and had a great time.  I even made a friend who lent me, "A Boy Named It," which remains one of my favorite books on surviving abuse to this day.  Nevertheless, in the back of my mind, it bothered me a lot that the facilitator was not a psychologist or certified mental health care provider.  She described herself as an "independent contractor" who specialized in helping victims of sexual assault.  The first red flag came when a rather disturbed members, who obviously appreciated the support and seemed to love the meetings, stopped attending rather abruptly.
   
   When it was time to talk about our experiences, most of the women had the typical "my boyfriend raped me," or "my uncle sexually abused me in my teens."  In spite of my family's tendency to shelter me from all evil, I had been coerced into a sadomadistic lesbian relationship, had to deal with two relatives (male and female, but not in my immediate family) who wanted to have have sexual relations with me, had an adult boyfriend, and was repeatedly molested by other students (and quite possibly an educator but my memory is shaky there) because I was a "retard" by the time I was eleven.  At age thirteen, the only reason I probably didn't end up as a naked corpse in an abandoned warehouse in Utah was because my dog saved me.  By the time I was fifteen, I had been raped in front of an audience by boyfriends, twice.  My relationship with my first husband started out sweet and wholesome, but my problems combined with his problems (he too was the victim of some unspeakable types of abuses as a child,) were a toxic combination of monumental problems.  When the marriage was through, he took my life savings and I went into a downward spiral that lead me into more sexual humiliation and suffering.  My story is not one that I can tell in a day, let alone ten minutes, without going into some sort of crazed disassociated state.  Unfortunately, that was the expectation of the group moderator and I failed to meet it.  To make matters worse, I listened in disbelief as I heard the moderator tell one of the group members that it had been okay for her "NOT" to report a rape because the police officer she spoke with was "mean" and didn't believe her.
   
   Months before, when I was assaulted in Minot, the bar staff actually tried to protect me.  They also made it very clear that it was my responsibility to report the crime, so as to prevent the slime ball from attacking any more women.  The other dancers at the club gave me tips on how to overcome my typical tendency to "fear-freeze" and how to use my shoes as weapons.  The bar staff made it clear that it was okay for me to make a scene, call for help and fight to the finish if I any man ever decided to mess with me again.  I went through a very intense interrogation by both the club's manager and a police officer when I reported the crime.  Both of them were mean, and seemed skeptical of my story.  I just stuck to my guns, told the story consistently and let them know that I had been the victim of a real crime that needed real attention.  In both cases, the questioners softened and let me know that they weren't trying to belittle me, they were just making sure I was telling the truth and not crying wolf.  Something clicked, and I understood from where they were coming from.
   
   After the meeting, I waited for the girl who didn't report the rape.  I violated group rules and told the woman that there was another way, and that it was okay to fight back.  I let her know that she could be a hero by reporting her crime.  Admittedly, that was a bad judgment call, particularly since I was going through a PTSD attack.  The next day, I got a call from the independent contractor moderator telling me that I would not be allowed in the group again until I spoke with her about "some issues" I was having.  I knew exactly what I did wrong and I was ready to own up to my inappropriate behavior and accept any consequences.  Unfortunately, the moderator made herself impossible to contact.  I left phone messages in the voicemail and with the front desk asking to schedule a meeting time, every single weekday.  I even went to the center the day before the meeting to see if she was there.  I received no contact for two weeks.  I reported her to the center's chairperson (my counselor.)  Instead of sympathy, or help, my counselor basically told me that the group moderator accused me of being a lying drama queen, that I had never kicked me out, and that the moderator was trying to get a hold of me.  She suggested I go back to individual counseling, and I did, but the damage was done and meeting with my counselor felt more like a fight than a release.
   
   I was livid about the whole ordeal, especially since that same week involved the abduction of my dog, Luna, a really horrible medical diagnosis for a life-threatening health condition and an awful family reunion.  From that moment on, I was through being a victim and I also realized that I was really was alone.  These two epiphanies led me to the conclusion that I was responsible for my future, my life and my safety.  It was time to be self-sufficient and use my tragedy as fuel for creativity.  To vent, I worked non-stop for three on a novel entitled Butterfly Armageddon.  I didn't really sleep, and I sustained myself on water and nacho chips.  It was my finished novel, and I self-published it on a very limited release (in fact some of my LJ friends have seen it, on my Literary Lunch Filter.)  It was the emotionally wrenching metaphorical autobiography that was the impetus for the rebirth of the Soup Wars Project, which you all now know as the Suckaverse.