A Letter ...

Dear Don,

In my starting efforts to try and better myself as a person, physically, spiritually and emotionally, it seems clear that I must travel back in time to try and figure out where some of my inner turmoil had begun. I cannot possibly blame you entirely, but there are several issues in my life that can be directly or indirectly traced back to you, our relationship and my avoidance of you after our break-up. Even the house I currently live in can be traced back to you since I started living here with a friend I had made after beginning to hang out at the 247 bar in order to avoid seeing you at Woody's. You were my first real boyfriend, but I don't think in the five years we were together I can actually say that I truly loved you and I realize now that I was nothing more than a possession to you.

I can remember seeing you way back 20-23 years ago in the CSR bar when we were both underage, me with long curly hair sitting alone at the bar and you coming in with your much older boyfriend, your hair spiked in that long forgotten '80s style wearing loud colored shirts to match. We never really spoke, but i thought you were attractive. It was a few years later when you finally came up to me and began talking. I had always been shy but you, being the loud opinionated Italian/Irishman that you were, didn't care. We hung out as friends for a few weeks before we started dating. Little did I know that you were also dating someone else at the time, but you soon broke up with him and started going out with me. I realize now how volitile the relationship was from the get-go, but the weaker part of me was just happy to be in a relationship and that, I realize was my first huge mistake.

This all goes back to 1986. I know that because in the early summer of that year I purchased my first "new" car, a 1987 Chevy Beretta, bright red with tinted windows and custom pinstripe done by a childhood friend who did detail work in a car dealership. I know that because late in that summer, we had our first physical altercation and, as materialistic as the reason may have been, I had my true first opportunity to bag the relationship, but instead I made my 2nd huge mistake. I allowed you to manipulate me and allow me to blame myself.

We were down in Wildwood staying with your family and you, me and your two cousins, Julie and (I forget the older sister's name) went out barhopping. We all got alittle drunk and I really don't remember what started it all, but I got so pissed off at you that I flicked my cigarette at you and it bounced off your cheek. You came at me with such force and anger that I was sure an all-out brawl would ensue. But, as luck would have it, the bartender behind me saw the entire thing, leaped over the bar and grabbed you before you got to me. Ironically, it was you to be escorted out of the place while your cousins tried to calm me. I kept trying to tell your cousins that you were doing something to my new car, but they assured me that they knew you better than me and that you were just outside cooling off. They tried to get me to dance, but I had to see for myself.

We left the bar and headed for the parking lot. There you were, standing beside my car. You immediately started to apologize for overreacting, but I ignored you and carefully circled my car, scanning every inch of the bright red surface. It didn't take me long to notice the broken antennae and soon after the huge 2 foot long scratch going down the center of my hood. I remember staring at you and asking you point blank what had happened? I remember you trying to tell me that this was how you found the car. I remember your cousins telling you that that was bullshit; that I was just inside the bar telling them that you were out here doing something to my new car. Yet you kept denying it.

The ride back to the beachhouse was silent until you finally screamed out from the back seat that yes...it was you. I simply said, "I know" and continued driving.

Back at the beach house, the rest of your family was sound asleep. You apologized again and said that you would pay for the damages. You asked me if I was leaving. I wanted to so bad, just pack my car and drive home right then and there, never to lay eyes on you again. But it was also 3 in the morning and I had been drinking, so instead I continued to give you the silent treatment. You got up and walked out of the house and headed down to the beach.

Part of my silent treatment had been to keep my anger in check. The last thing I wanted was to raise royal hell with you and wake the entire family. So I followed you out to the beach, readying my self for battle. Instead, after yelling and screaming out there under a blanket of stars, I was suddenly on my knees crying and begging for YOUR forgiveness for being MAD. I still don't know how you managed to do that to me, but I remember you coming over to me and giving me a hug and, thinking about it still so vividly in my mind, I know now that that was your whole intention, to manipulate me into believing that my actions IN the bar led YOU to do damage to my car.

Over the next several months, I started to lose my longtime friends. Not so much lose them than give them up for you and YOUR friends, people I had nothing in common with. My waking hours were either spent at work (where you called me several times a day to make sure I was actually there) or your place. I stood by and watched my life slowly deteriorate and become your's. Our weekend nights out at woody's started fairly early and ended early because you had the need to pound back 3 or 4 shots of Jack Daniels within the first hour of being there and, in most cases, by 10:30 or 11 we were back at your place lying in bed and watching tv. You would get a 2nd wind and roll a joint or smoke a bowl. I would take acouple hits and roll over and go to sleep.

When you DID manage to make it through the night, we often went to the Bike stop. Several times there I would leave to go to the bathroom only to return and see you in a darkened corner feeling someone up. And what do I do? I turn the other cheek.

When I actually came across someone from my past, a guy I had a couple dates with a few years earlier, you were in the bathroom. We were upstairs at woody's and I was talking to this guy and you came out of the bathroom, grabbed the beer I was holding for you and stood there between us, defiantly. You stared at him and you looked back at me. "Who's this?"

"This is an old friend of mine, Dave. Dave, this is my boyfriend, Don." Dave reached out his hand, but you looked down at it and then back up at him and didn't say a word. I remember the look Dave had given you, but more importantly, the look he gave me. "Chris, it was good running into you. Good luck." And with that, he turned away.

"What did he mean by that?" You demanded.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why so rude?" I shot back.

"How do you know him?"

"I dated him...when I was 18!" I turned and walked away, livid. "Thanks for being such an ass to someone I haven't seen in 4 years."

"What? Do you want him again?"

I stopped right in the middle of the flight of stairs leading back down to the first floor. People trying to get by grumbled, but I ignored them. I Looked back at you and suddenly opened up with both barrels: "Let me get this right! I have to sit back and watch you flirt with complete strangers and feel them up and make out with them in the basement of the bikestop, but I come across an old friend and something has to be going on between us??? You're a fucking idiot!!!"

"You tell'm, girlfriend." someone in the passing crowd shouted. Who knows, it could've been Dave himself, but it was enough to make me see that I was causing a seen. I turned and continued down to the first floor and out of the bar.

You apologized and insisted on going back to Dave and apologizing to him, but I wouldn't allow it. I never saw or spoke to Dave again.

***cybernote to Dave DiPietro: it's been about 18 years since this occurred, but please accept MY apologies for having such an asshole as a boyfriend.

Another episode that clearly stands out in my mind, Don, was my best friend's wedding. We were about a year into our relationship and by this time, Mark had been another childhood friend that I let go because of you. But I still lived at home, across the street from him and was invited to his wedding, which so happened to be taking place down the street from your house. I stopped over to see you before heading to the wedding and told you I would see you later in the day. Instead I called you from the reception and told you that I was going to go to a party at Mark's parents' (across the street from where I grew up and lived). You grumbled and bitched and asked what were you supposed to do, just sit home and wait? I explained that I hadn't seen these people in a long time and I wanted to catch up. None of them knew that I was gay, let alone seeing another guy and I planned on keeping it that way.

So there we were, 15 or 20 of us out infront of Mark's house, laughing and drinking and remembering the good times. Then, from across the street, I heard my mother calling. It was after midnight and she was quite upset. "Don's on the phone. What the hell is he doing calling at this hour?" I picked up the phone and you were already screaming at me. "Where are you?"

"I'm at Mark's house. Why?"

"No you're not. I drove down your street and didn't see you."

"How can you miss us? We're the only house on the block with a bunch of bridesmaids in ugly dresses hanging out in the front yard."

"Well I'm going out for a DRINK!"

"Go then. I hanging out with my friends."

The next morning you called telling me you broke your wrist because you punched a wall after I made you so upset. I later found out that you punched a wall in the adult bookstore, putting a hole right through the drywall.

Don, we were in a bad relationship for over five years and for nearly four of those, I wanted out, but didn't know how. It had finally ended though on the day before Easter. I was in the middle of a project and was getting frustrated with myself and you wanted to go out. I said that I wasn't going to go out, but you were getting angry with me. I finally said, "Look, this just isn't working. Go out. Have a good time and leave me to what I have to do."

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"C'mon. I'm not happy. You're not happy."

"Fine!" And you hung up. I was actually relieved. It wasn't the reaction I was expecting, but at least another fight wasn't taking place. By this time all of our conversations were nothing more than arguements in different tones. But a few minutes later, you called me back. I figured it was going to be more apologizing and trying to work things out, something that I had no intention of doing. Not this time. I've apologized enough for your actions. Instead, you said the strangest thing: "I just want you to know that, if anyone asks, I'm telling them that this break up is YOUR fault."

"Fine, Don." I replied, exhausted. "Tell them whatever you want. I really don't care anymore."

I thought that that was the end of it, but was I in for a rude awakening. You once told me: "Don't ever cheat on me. I will find out." It was a strange comment to make, considering that, although our sex life was all but completely gone after the first 2 years, I was completely monogomous as I am in any relationship I'm in. But, Don, no truer words were spoken. For months and even YEARS after our break-up, I was running into people you had fooled around with behind MY back. Thinking back, I can remember you taking secretive phone calls in the other room.

So there you have it, Don. You were right. I WILL find out. I knew long before this letter was written. I have avoided you for a few years after our break-up because I was afraid that I would just out and out KILL you right there on sight. I started hanging out on the other side of town, met a new group of people. Kept our relationship secret and from there, through a series of paths, both good and bad; right and wrong, here I am, writing to you...FINALLY...after 16 years, to tell you how much I hate you. I hate you for manipulating me. I hate you for cheating on me. I hate you for making me give up all the friends of my youth. I hate you for so many things, but most of all, Don...I hate you for making me hate MYSELF.

I hate myself for ALLOWING you to manipulate me
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to make me give up my friends
I hate myself for KNOWING all along, on some level, that you were cheating on me and not nipping it in the bud.
I hate myself for PUTTING UP with this shit for five years.
I hate myself for WAITING 16 YEARS to tell you this
I hate myself for BURYING it only to let it surface and repeat itself in all but ONE reltationship since. And in that one relationship in which it didn't happen...
...I hate myself for THINKING that a relationship couldn't actually BE any other way.

Don, it wasn't until just this very second that I realized how much I actually buried my emotions where you were concerned. I write this letter and think: my God...did this actually HAPPEN to me?

I don't think that I will EVER see true happiness. Not in this lifetime. Time does not heal all wounds. In many cases, it just scabs over and scars, leaving you with a neverending reminder of the pain that once was. It's been 16 years and the hate, although buried deep down, is still there and is still strong. I will always carry the burden of having known you and will, more importantly, always carry the burden of losing my identity and my self worth.

People tell me I'm bitter and it's a name I have given myself. I am currently (as stated in the opening of this letter to you) trying to overcome it. Although you will never see this letter, it's out there as proof that I am finally letting it out. I am accepting my part in that mess of a relationship and that I am tired of granting your request of taking blame for our break-up. Although it's been a long time, it was a good 2 years after our break-up that I was able to break free of the whole "Don and Chris" label. Whenever people asked what happened, I bit my tongue and simply said things just didn't work out. It wasn't until much more recently that I am able to say that a good deal of who I am today was because of the emtional abuse that you put me through, but I still left everything vague. Now it's out, at least a couple of key examples of the MANY.

So, Don, it's been a long time coming, but I'm here to tell you that I will not let you win in the end. You have manipulated me for too long and I'm just seeing that now. It's going to stop. So let me just give you one last piece of advise before I forever put this behind me and try to finally make pease with myself and get on with my life.

That little piece of advice: GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Chris

To Kill a Mockingbird ...

The Old City Section of Philadelphia can be a very interesting area of town to work, play and relax. The architecture ranges anywhere from the original colonial structures dotting narrow cobblestone paths to Georgian and Victorian facades bordering streets like mismatched dominoes to large warehouses converted into overpriced lofts, while maintaining their Old City charm while holding on to their identities by keeping the names of thier original uses, like the Chocolate Works or the Hoopskirt Factory. Rising up from the rubble of some of the fallen and forgotten foundations, you can now see glass and steel reflecting the sunlight and giving those fortunate enough to afford it, a spectacular and unobstructed view of the office towers in Center City a mile west.

Tourists flock to this part of the city for the nation's history, found anywhere from Independence Hall and the Betsy Ross house to the new Liberty Bell Pavilion and the great fortresslike structure that is the National Constitution Center. Restaurants are packed, most days from open to close as visitors wait anxiously for their turn on the Duck Boats or the London double decker tour busses. The clip clop of a countless array of horse drawn carriages can barely be heard above the scripted tourguides telling riders the significance of The Real World House.

Walking the streets is much better than trying to navigate your way around siteseeing traffic, unless of course, you happen to be late for work or on your lunchbreak on a beautiful summer afternoon and suddenly find yourself on the tail end of a tourgroup of 30 to 50 people all stopping to snap pictures of a church steeple or a park bench that just so happens to have proof (read off of a bronzed plaque) that some founding father once sat there to clean the mud off his shoes.

I enjoy my casual morning strolls from the bus stop to work. Oftentimes, when the morning air isn't too thick with the building humidity of the day, I will walk from home, taking a different route each time and discovering things I have never seen before even after more than ten years living in Center City. It was upon one of these walks that I found myself suddenly attacked, without provocation. No, it wasn't a mugger. No, it wasn't a gang of misfit teens.

But I can honestly say that I now feel what it must've been like to be Tippy Hedren all alone in that little rowboat...

The other day, I was doing my usual walk from the bus stop, up 4th street to Arch, and decided to cut through the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House, a large 2-story brick building that takes up nearly an entire city block. Within the confines of the 8 foot bricked wall surrounding the grounds there are nice little garden areas with benches scattered about where you can sit and have lunch or escape from the noise of traffic passing down Arch Street.

That morning, however, I was doomed to cross the angry path of an overprotective mockingbird keeping a watchful eye on her nest.

Little did I know that mockingbirds build their nest low to the ground, under or in closely packed shrubs. I sort of found this out the hard way when I passed through the iron gates from 4th street and headed up the brick pathway that would lead me out through a matching set of gates directly across from work. I wasn't ten feet inside the walled garden when, above me and to my right, I hear a loud and obnoxious screech. There, ontop of a lightpost, is a mockingbird, it's head bobbing feverishly in my direction. It screeched again and took up toward the roof of the meetinghouse.

I ignored it and continued on my way, the tiny sound of the plastic grocery bag brushing against my leg is the only sound reaching my ears on an exceptionally quiet morning. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly got a chill up my back. It may have happened before the actual incident or it may have been simultanious. I couldn't be sure. All I know was that there was a soundless rush of air that passed by my left ear and I quickly spun around to catch the tail of the mockingbird disappearing up into the tree over me. I stopped and stared up, thinking that this bird did not just try to fly into me.

But there it was, out on a branch staring down at me, screeching and pointing with his head and....well...mocking me. I decided that I don't care how little that thing was, there was no way I was running. I stood there for a minute staring back up into the tree, watching the bird bounce from limb to limb until...and I can't tell if it was my imagination, but...it zeroed in on me. I stared in amazement as the bird spread his wings and took flight. Then, when its path was clear, it close its wings tight against the side of its body and, with a screech that I can only imagine sounding like the last sound to escape the mouth of a Kamikaze pilot, this demonbird came at me like a heat seeking missile.

With barely a second to react, I arched my back to try and get out of its path and swung my plastic bag up infront of me at the same time. The bird, as if pulled by a wire, suddenly did a sharp right turn just inches from my head and took off up into the tree again.

"Shit!" I shouted with a nervous laugh.

The bird perched itself once again on the branch and screeched, readying itself for another attack. It flew up and out of the leaves and came down towards me like a heavy stone, this time turning away higher up and landing once again on the roof.

I must've really looked like a fool out there in the middle of the garden, standing in the sunlight like a contortionist with turret's. I realized that I probably did look like a fool by the reaction to the group of hot firemen standing infront of the fire house on Arch Street, looking back in my direction and smiling. I took one last look up towards the roof and noticed that the bird was gone. Wary of another attack, I grabbed my plastic bag (and what little pride I had left) and headed to work.

***

(last night)...

After a couple hours of speaking to my friend, Rob, on-line, I headed downstairs to watch a special call "Ghost Adventures" or some such crap. It was a 2 hour special on the Sci-Fi channel and turned out to be pretty cheesy. Although there were a couple of clips that kinda got my blood crawling. It also happened to be at this point that Rob decides to call me on my cell.

I was lying on the sofa, shirtless, the phone resting on my stomach, set on vibrate. Glued to the television, I watched in awe as the makers of the documentary had caught, on film, bricks and boards in the basement of this supposed haunted hotel in New Mexico flying off of the floor and into a wall. The cameramen were so startled that they went off screaming down the corridor, their cameras capturing nothing more than out of control light and shadow.

My heart raced...

My breathing shallowed...

My vibrating phone comes to life on my stomach...

I scream...

After answering the phone and telling Rob what just happened, we chatted alittle bit about phone problems and he said he was going to bed and watch a DVD. It dawned on me that I still had 3 DVDs from Netflix that I've been holding onto for a couple of weeks, but I couldn't remember what they were. With him still on the phone, I opened each envelope and read the titles.

And I burst out laughing.

The last envelope held the most appropriate movie title, considering my ordeal on the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House.

The only thing better would've been Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

But this is a close second....

To Kill a Mockingbird.

Three Dates Are Now Set ...

Life in a Nuthouse is a thing of the past, both figuratively and literally. The original name of this blog was to establish the ups and downs, comings and goings and ins and outs behind the walls that was The Post Bar. But the bar is all but completely gone. It is officially under new ownership and, although no one knows exactly when, it will close, be remodeled and re-open sometime in the future. It won't be the same and who knows if the old crowd will return or whether it will have the same sorted drunken drama as it did over the last several years, but it is no longer a "nuthouse" as my blog title once stated.

I have also removed the sub-heading of this blog because I think it's about time that I, along with the Post, need improvements, changes and a fresh start. No longer will my heading read bitter and middle aged. I'm 40 years old and it's time I reevaluate my life and my attitude. I have tried to rid myself of my bitter attitude in the past, but I have jokingly been labeled that for more than five years now and it's time for it to end. I don't like being told that my bitterness is why people like me or people I just meet already know me as bitter before even getting to KNOW me. It's going to be hard and it'll probably take a long time, but the last thing I would want to be remembered for was the fact that I spent my entire adult life seemingly resentful of all those around me.

I figured the best way to start down this new path was to make three changes in my life; three large changes that will ultimately improve my life and make the transition alittle easier...eventually. I have the dates set up and recorded on my calendar and there's no erasing them.

I will not announce these dates to anyone. They will be my own personal goals and start times. My self-esteem is low and always has been. The last thing I would want is to announce my dates to my friends (or in this case the entire cyberworld) and then either a: fail, or b: not start at all. I will be hard enough on myself if failure should occur and really do not need those around me to remind me that I have failed, or to show disappointment in my failure. I will say this though: 2 of the 3 goals are right around the corner.

So now the actual goals:
* First: Quit smoking
* Second: Get back to the gym on a regular basis (after re-joining). Included in goal number 2 will be to re-evaluate my eating habits as well. Something I've never looked at.
* Third: Get entirely out of debt.

This part, although there are thousands of people who are worse off than myself, seems to be the toughest hurdle. I've always had a roommate or housemate up until about 3 or 4 years ago. And at that time, when I started living by myself, I was at one of the lowest points of my life and I really didn't give a rat's ass about anything, myself included. Truly, the only reason I'm alive today and writing is that I have seen what suicide had done to my family in the past and I didn't want that to happen again. So, instead, I planted a fake smile on my face and perservered. It's not that I'm thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars in debt. In fact, I'm far from it. It just seems that, just when I think I'm gaining the upper hand, something falls apart. So, with each paycheck, more and more money winds up being spread thinner and thinner. Now, at work, sales are way down across the board (but it seems like there's an upsurge once again). However, due to my pay structure, it looks like it will be a couple to several more months before I'm ahead of the game again.

So there you have it; my three life altering goals. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it...along with your support (my friends), maybe some guidance or suggestions when needed and, most importantly, understanding. There may be times when I will not be joining in in any of the reindeer games simply because the funds aren't there. Just understand and accept.

And by the way, there are some people out there (y'all know who you are) who have been an ear to talk to and I have gone after it like a hungry pitbull at times. I thank you and appreciate your allowing my rants.

Speaking of rants...

About this blog. As a sidebar sort of a goal, I am going to try to get back on this thing and keep it up to date. It may be rantings. It may be updates on the progress with my goals. It may be nothing more than talking about what mundane things I did that day or week.

I guess that's it for now. I'll be in touch!

Thanks!
Chris

This is the first time in quite awhile that I'm actually writing anything and I realize that some of my friends may be shocked, But something happened to me last night and, although it happened four years ago, I've never written about it. I figured what better time than now, when it's fresh in my mind again.

Also, for some reason, I'm not able to title this (what is going to wind up being) drawn out story, so forgive me ahead of time.

I met my friend out for a couple of drinks at Uncles last night. We had both agreed ahead of time that it was going to be a quick night for the two of us; nothing more and a few beers (and the ritualistic shot). I arrived a few minutes before him and settled down with an ice cold bottle of beer (monkey piss to some who shall remain nameless). All in all it started out as a enjoyable, yet uneventful night. We shared some talk, laughs, shots. I received a nice box of fudge brought back from the shore (but stuffed into a Wawa bag--I haven't quite figured that one out yet).

One brief topic that came up was how a former housemate of mine entered my house unexpectedly (he had moved out a few months before) at 3 in the morning. It freaked me out so much so that I nearly crashed a lamp over his head as I heard him moving upstairs towards my bedroom. Considering what had happened to me a few months before (that story is what I'm now leading up to) it was a terrible thing for him to do to me at such an early hour.

I mentioned this to my friend last night and he wanted me to save this story and go into detail later. I happily agreed and he soon moved across to the other end of the bar to speak to another friend of his who had entered some time earlier.

I ordered another beer and made some brief conversation with the off-duty bartender who was sitting next to me. At one point, I took a swig from my bottle and looked across the bar to the cash register. I realized it was past midnight when the digital display read 7-9-7. I stared at the numbers for a few more seconds wondering the significance. Suddenly a chain reaction started to take place in my head:

* Who's birthday is it?...
* No ones
* Yes it is...
* No...
* It's something...
* Friend's, family's?...
* Crap! Anniversary...
* Mom & Dad...
* Remember to call or mom'll be pissed...
* She worries about you when you don't call...
* She'll think something happened...
* Like that other time...
* When that guy...

I suddenly felt my heart begin to pound harder as my eyes locked in on that digital readout before me. My mind raced back over the years. Images began to form in my head. Then came the voice, whispering once again in my ear. Deep, rough, angry:

"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you..."

I suddenly didn't want to leave the bar. I knew it was in my head, but my body wouldn't move for a moment. I looked around the bar at the faces. People were laughing and joking. The music was blaring. Everything started to blend together as the mirrored walls closed in around me.

I closed my eyes and pushed it away. When I opened them again, things were back to normal. I figured it was now or never. I took one last swig of beer and got up to leave. My friend was at the bar near the exit and I told him I freaked myself out and was leaving. We have plans today and he said he was leaving in a couple minutes himself. I walked out the door and headed home.

One half of me kept telling me to grab a taxi, but I needed the air to try and clear my head, so I walked the 8 or 9 blocks to my house, all the while that night replayed itself over and over in my mind, not letting go. What freaked me out even more was that, outside of the bar I had just left, everything was identical to that night...including the date.

Four years ago, I had left another bar after deciding that I wasn't going to drink too much. Just a beer or two. I needed to get up the next morning for a job interview. It was a hot, muggy night and, as I made my way down the quiet Center City streets, I kept thinking about the coolness of my bedroom. After about ten minutes, I turned the corner onto my quiet tree-lined street. I reached my house and pulled my keys out and unlocked the security gate. I unlocked the inside door and stepped into my vestibule. I turned around, keys in hand, to close and lock the gate when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement to my left.

"Are you Michelle?" A voice asked. (I don't actually remember the name he used, but it was a girl's name.

"What?" I replied to the figure drawing nearer. My hand was on the gate and I was swinging it closed, key in hand and ready to lock.

"Are you Michelle?" He repeated. He was now at the foot of my stoop.

"No." I answered. My key was just touching the lock on the gate.

The above dialogue lasted less than 5 seconds. There was no alarm in my head. I was going through my normal procedure of locking the gate. But that brief exchange was all he needed to make a move.

He grabbed the gate and pulled. My hand was still gripping and, as I tried to pull it shut again, my mind could not grasp what was going on.

Who is this guy?
Do I know him?
Doesn't he know I don't look like a Michelle?

The alarm started to ring loudly in my head as we struggled with the gate, but at the same time I couldn't understand what was actually happening. Everything was happening so quickly. Only about ten seconds had now passed since this guy first spoke, but everything was happening in slow motion. He pulled hard on the gate and I felt it being torn out of my grip.

"Get in!" He shouted, stepping into the doorway.

I screamed for help as I reached my hands out infront of me to try and push him back outside. I still remember the oversized 53 on his chest; white numbers on a back blue football jersey.

He pushed me further into the house and kicked the door closed with his foot, all the while holding onto the neck of my t-shirt and pulling me closer to him. I yelled again, hoping someone was walking by my open window...but when I looked towards the window, I saw the fan on the floor and the blinds closed. It had rained earlier that day and I had shut the window. I mentally kicked myself.

It's amazing what goes through your head...

He through me down onto the floor and I felt his full weight ontop of me. I struggled to break free and I tried to scream again. I was lying face down on my livingroom floor and I felt his thick fingers begin to wrap around my neck. I tried to scream again, but when I took in a lungfull of air, his fingers tightened.

"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you." His words were harsh in my ears. His breath was hot.

I didn't listen. I tried to scream again, but as his fingers tightened around my throat even further, all that escaped my lips was a throaty gurgle. I felt my eyes begin to water and white spots soon replaced my vision of the television stand a few feet infront of me.

"Shut up!" he barked through clenched teeth. "I told you, I don't want to hurt you."

His fingers relaxed, but as one hand completely released itself from my neck, the other held their position, threatening me.

I pleaded, both to him and to God. My words were soft and caught between sobs. The weight of this guy (who was actually about 190 or so pounds) felt like a car ontop of me. I felt his free hand searching my pockets, pulling my wallet out.

I suddenly remembered my grandfather's high school ring, a gift the previous Christmas from my mother. It had never been off of my finger and it suddenly dawned on me that, although small and of little value except to me, it was in plain view of my attacker. I struggled to pull my hand inside and under my chest.

I didn't have any money on me which, on one hand, was a good thing. He wasn't going to take anything, but my pride, dignity and feeling of security within my own home. It wasn't until he flipped me over that I realized he may take something else.

I was now on my back. My attacker was straddled across my chest. Both of us were breathing heavy. He reached into one of his pockets of his baggy black pants and said to me: "Let's see what you got upstairs."

It was then that I saw the knife he had slipped out of his pocket...