New Radio Interview Booked

I will be speaking on October 9th in a live 90 minute interview.  Tune in from anywhere to listen to the important message on how we can fight human trafficking, stand together to end bullying, and learn what signs of abuse to watch for around us.  It's going to be a good one!

Find more information at:
www.blogtalkradio.com/naasca

Join the Facebook event at:
https://www.facebook.com/events/914578908921223/

The Manipulation of a Victim Through Photography

Nicholas Ray inspired my post yesterday about how I was able to find a moment to smile while living through my captivity in Scotland.  It's a dark, dark world.  I did wait to talk about his final two questions until today though.  They were about the ugliness of manipulations through the photos that traffickers take of their victims.  I'll remind you of his question...

"I have seen many pictures of trafficked individuals. Several pictures have them smiling and laughing. I had a classmate who, during a sociology class where we were discussing modern slavery and trafficking, mentioned that if their ordeal was so vexing, how indeed could they muster up a smile? I do realize, after going through your [Social Media accounts] and reading your posts that the little moments of reprieve bring forth such emotions. However, how does a victim in such situations muster up a smile or a laugh when his or her captor is taking pictures of them. What goes through one's mind ? Does the captor use these pictures to manipulate the victim and the authorities and how does one fight back against such manipulations?"

Some take photos. Some don't.  I can't speak for all experiences, but my own experience is that the photos were his trophies.  They were how he kept control of everyone and everything (specifically me, but also the random strangers who would come over to join in the abuse games), but they were also his source of deplorable, despicable future pleasure.

The first time he ever took photos of the things taking place, I remember him asking the male if he was okay with it.  From what I remember, that was the first and last time he ever asked permission to take photos, and never once did he ask for my consent.  It was a clear example of entitlement and ownership over me.   I belonged to him; why would he need permission for anything?  I'd had entirely too much to drink and vomited from the fifth dirty martini consumed at the hotel bar in less than 2 hours.  I needed to be numb.  I've never been a drinker.  I never wanted to be a drinker.  But I needed to get through it somehow, and I knew what I'd been told about 'drunken blackouts' caused by alcohol. so I picked my poison. 

I did not achieve the drunken blackout I'd been in search of, unfortunately.  I do remember vomiting in the bushes out front before going up to the room.  He never asked if I was okay while I hung my head over the cinder block wall.  He just asked if I was ready to go up yet.    The man we were there to see was in his hotel room when we went up. He'd walked past us while we were sitting in the bar before I lost my stomach.  I felt even more nauseous.  I didn't want to be there. I was already self-conscious from scars on my body from many years before.  I wasn't comfortable wearing a swimsuit in front of people I knew very well.  I certainly wasn't comfortable with being naked in front of strangers.  The entire experience was frightening.  I was clearly terrified.  He kept telling me over and over that if I wasn't happy in the end, it would never happen again.  I didn't want to be there in the first place, but if I went through with it 'just this once' I was assured it would never happen again.  I believed him.  He told me to do it 'just this once' to prove to him that I loved him.  He told me I'd be safe, and that nothing would happen to me.  He told me that he loved me.  All the while, *I* told me that I could trust him.

I'm sure you already know that it wasn't the only time it ever happened.  He lied, of course.  Over the next year, he captured quite literally thousands of images, all depicting my sexual abuse.

He kept the photos on a locked computer that didn't have access to the internet, so that his paranoia was mostly kept at bay about his employers finding any of them.  I didn't have the password to the computer so I couldn't delete them.  However, he loved showing them to me every chance he got.  He would get a little gleam in his eye when he picked out his favorites, and they were usually the most horrible, the most revealing, most grotesque photos he'd taken.  Those, he kept in a special image folder.

When I finally managed to escape and get back to California, I thought the nightmare was over.  I changed my phone number when I realized he no longer had any real control over me, and blocked him in every possible way I could think of from contacting me ever again.  That was when I learned the dangers of putting too much personal information on social media.

I arrived at work that fateful morning somewhere around 10am.  It had already been a difficult morning.  The roommate and I had been trying to arrange a ride for her to pick up her car from the shop, and of course I'd promised to help.  She was late waking up, so she was late getting ready, which set me late by about an hour.  Since my boss at the time was a long-time friend of mine I didn't think too much of it.  I would be working on receipts and reimbursements for him that day from his home, and I had a dedicated computer set up specifically for that purpose in the front room.  He'd work from his couch on his laptop.  It's the way things always were.  It's the way things had always been. That man rarely ever exited his couch except to forage for food or go to some rare activity outside of his domicile by the beach.  I guess he'd had a difficult morning that morning also. 

I walked in and there they were, full screen on a massive monitor.  There were a total of 32 photos displayed as thumbnails, but even as thumbnails I could see exactly what they were. One in particular even displayed *his* tattoo... the Monster of Scotland.  It was a clearly identifying tattoo, but his face didn't show in any of the photos of my abuse.  He was always careful to not keep those.  Thirty TWO photos of me in what I can only describe as a 'compromising' position, in ways the human brain can't begin to comprehend without being warped beyond easy repair.  There I was, in photographic evidence - at least to me - being raped by literally a dozen or more different people. There were different people in every single photo... the only consistency was me. 

They'd been emailed to my boss and friend from a rather suspicious email address that indicated an eye color and land of origin.  There was no name attached to the email address, but the text included said simply this... "I wouldn't want to marry this. Would you?"

I crumbled.  My boss and friend was, for MANY years, convinced that I had become a 'swinger' while living in Scotland and that ALL of the photos were with my permission.  Because how could they not be? How could someone take photos of me being raped by multiple people without my permission?  How could I end up naked with that many different people without it being my own choice?  Surely something like that wasn't possible.  I wanted to scream.  Instead, I nearly fainted, grabbed the back of his couch, and slid down to sit on the arm rest.  I don't remember much over the next several hours, but I do remember there forever being an unbreakable thickness in the air between him and I.  He didn't believe I didn't have a choice. I didn't believe he'd think that of me after so many years of knowing one another. 

My roommate I'd helped out earlier that morning was someone I thought I could turn to, so I did.  In the end, that truth built walls between us.  Unable to comprehend what had happened to me, she did much the same that my boss had done.  She had to come up with a coping mechanism in her brain to make sense of it all.  Instead of being treated as I had been, in her mind I had been a 'high priced call girl' and went so far as to indicate such on social media. 

I was taking Jiu Jitsu at the time.  I had grown incredibly close to my teacher.  He was a kind and patient man, and when I told him I was crying my eyes out hysterically in the passenger seat of someone else's car at a grassy park in Orange County.  I don't remember how I got there, or why I was sitting in the passenger seat of a stranger's car with my feet in the grass beside me, but I remember being hysterical.  I remember feeling this intense pain in my chest and throat that made it difficult to breathe or think.  I remember agonizing pain, knowing that the life I'd spent the last couple of months trying to build after my return from Scotland had just been ripped away from me. 

My roommate had been my only friend when I returned. She turned her back on me.  My boss whom I'd known for nearly a decade believed I had voluntarily submitted to sexual torture and abuse.  My landlord bought into it and personally asked me to 'not bring those types around' the apartment.  In one fatal move from over 5,000 miles away in another country, I nearly lost everything. I lost my job, my only friends I could confide in, and very nearly my home. 

I CAME BACK SWINGING.

In what took days upon days I sent an email to his superior officers in Scotland, outlining the abuse I suffered at the hands of the Monster.  I included a zip file of the original email my boss had received, which included the photos that even showed off his arm tattoo, though not his face.  I was in a long back-and-forth dialogue that summer between the Scotland internal investigations and myself.  In the end, I don't know what (if anything) happened to him,  but I still have the printed and mailed letter to me from them indicating that they saw "no signs of abuse" in the image, and claimed that all activities appeared 'consensual in the photos'.  I felt defeated.  He'd destroyed my life with a simple email... or so I thought. 

It took years to recover from that email, and every time I thought I'd seen the last of it, the photos would surface somewhere else.  Eventually they surfaced on several image sharing websites and pornography pages. Did you know more than 80% of pornography is made with victims of human trafficking? I didn't know that.  I guess the Monster of Scotland was using those photos to get paid somehow. Not that I was ever a celebrity, but I did have a minor following from when I was first modeling years ago.  He capitalized on that following and people apparently paid money to see more of the photos involving me being raped by total strangers. 

In 2017 I started talking about how I had been kidnapped and locked away by someone I didn't know when I was only 19 years old.  It was through my participating with several anti-trafficking groups here in the Denver area that I finally started to find my voice in order to talk about Scotland at all.  It's been a hard road to get to where I am, but I'm here now. I finally have an easier time talking about it.  I wrote the book about what happened when I was 19, but I have yet to write about the real story behind Scotland.  However, I've already decided that I'm finally going to try.  That book will be called "Second Ambition" and I hope to finish it within the next year. 

Sometimes I think what I'm doing is very dangerous.  I know he's still out there. I know his family is still out there. I know this probably makes them very angry and they would really love to have me permanently silenced.  But I also know that I have to keep trying.  If they get to me, they get to me.  But every single person I'm able to help between now and then is one more person who might be able to find their voice like I did.  If I can't make a difference, maybe they can. 

I have to try.  I won't let anyone manipulate me through photography ever again.  It's actually a big part of why I am a pose coach and mentor for others wanting to get into modeling.  NOBODY should ever be manipulated through photos.  I've had some of the worst of that, but there are many varying degrees of manipulation through photography.  I'm here to fight that every bit as much as I want to fight human trafficking.  I'll never be a victim again. 

Photo credit to Foto Man Ron, 2018

Doritos Pinup

People can call me who or what they want. I know the truth. I’m a retro Pinup Dorito loving redheaded goofball with a crazy life story and some really high hopes for the future. I think I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogger. 

Reviving a Survivor

It was 19 years ago today I came to life.  

It's different from being born or becoming an adult or even having a first sip of alcohol. In fact, to me it's a day more important than any of those. I don't remember the day I was born, I couldn't tell you when I had my first sip of alcohol and I honestly don't believe many alive could pinpoint becoming an adult on one particular day, aside from a few WWII vets who went to war as 19 year old children and came home as aged, old men trapped in young, battered bodies. For me it's another story entirely.  

Nineteen years ago TODAY, shortly after 1am I was revived on an operating table.  

I stayed in a hospital bed for 6 days while 5 pints of blood were put back into my frail body. I remember waking up in the hospital after having a conversation with a deceased relative. I remember seeing both of my parents there, standing over me and crying. I even remember the confusion I had, wondering how in the world I had gone from having a pleasant chat with my grandfather, to looking up at crying parents and wondering what in the world they were crying about. I had no idea at the time that I had actually been dead, but much of that can be contributed to the heavy sedation I was still under. My eyelids fluttered only briefly long enough for me to say hello to them, and then I was out once more.  

And today I've been revived once again.... 20 years after being kidnapped and locked away the first time, my story is being told. A full 19 years after being brought back to life like Frankenstein's bride, my story lives on and is being shared across the globe. Right now, at this very moment, people are reading about how to help put an end to this horrific disaster that still effects the lives of millions each year. People are purchasing my book Detailed Pieces of a Shattered Dream off of Amazon knowing the proceeds go to organizations that fight human trafficking. 

Let's put an end to human trafficking.

We can, if we work together.

The Wounded Smile of a Trafficked Victim

I received another hard question yesterday and I've decided that it would be in the best interest of anyone interested in learning more to see the VERY real question as well as the VERY real answer from my own perspective.

"I have seen many pictures of trafficked individuals. Several pictures have them smiling and laughing. I had a classmate who, during a sociology class where we were discussing modern slavery and trafficking, mentioned that if their ordeal was so vexing, how indeed could they muster up a smile? I do realize, after going through your [Social Media accounts] and reading your posts that the little moments of reprieve bring forth such emotions. However, how does a victim in such situations muster up a smile or a laugh when his or her captor is taking pictures of them. What goes through one's mind ? Does the captor use these pictures to manipulate the victim and the authorities and how does one fight back against such manipulations?"

That is such a great question, Nicholas Ray. That's one of the hard ones.
If you don't mind, I'll answer the very specific manipulation questions tomorrow.

I know it's a touchy subject for most people but please don't ever be afraid to ask. I talk about this kind of stuff all the time, and the more questions I get, the more awareness comes about. YOU, in asking a question, just helped quite possibly hundreds of people to understand more about human trafficking.

It's incredibly difficult to understand how someone living through Hell can still smile and appear to be happy. In fact, there were times while I was in Scotland that my smile wasn't forced, but was genuine. Just like when you read something vague on Facebook, a smile can be taken completely out of context. To understand this, I have to go back to the beginning of it all. Let me explain...

So there are two very smile-y photos of me included in this article.  Both of them were taken on the same day, and actually were taken only moments apart.  The biggest difference you'll see is the addition of a young person in the one photo.  Taken at face value I look very happy in both.  In contrast to the majority of days spent in Scotland, that was one of my happiest days.  By comparison, I was overjoyed.  That is not to say that my life was good or pleasant by any stretch of the greatest imaginations, but rather that when compared to other days, I was truly happy.  There are a LOT of factors as to why that could be, but most importantly is that of the young person in the photo with me.  

1. The Kiddo:
This little girl is probably around 15 years old now.  I have no doubt she's as pretty as her mother was.  However, since she's still underage, I'm going to avoid mentioning her name or how she was related to the man who abused me.  There were several children around that day and I absolutely adored them.  This kiddo in particular was especially adorable with the missing front teeth.  I loved her to pieces.  I tend to love all children as long as they're well behaved.  She certainly was.  But there was a lot more than just children around.  

2. Family:  
His entire family was there.  Of course I couldn't let any of them know what had been going on, because they'd known him their entire lives and me for only a few short months. They wouldn't believe me no matter what I said, and I would be severely punished for it later on if I did.  So, instead of dwelling on how badly I wanted and needed help, I made the decision to live in the moment.  There weren't many moments in my life that were enjoyable. I wasn't going to mess up one of the only ones that existed.  Basically, having all his family around ensured I wouldn't be abused in any way because he needed to keep up the appearances every bit as much as I did, just for different reasons.  The family was my safety blanket to ensure I wouldn't be raped or sold for an entire weekend.  


3. Vacation:  
The entire family (his mother and father - whom I adored - his sister, his sister's husband, and every child directly related to the family) all piled together for a short family vacation to the sea side.  It had been the first time I'd seen the ocean since I'd flown there many months before. 

4. Dressing up:
The only time I ever got to feel like me were in the rare moments like this one.  In order to keep up the appearances I was permitted to wear makeup and lipstick.  Otherwise, those things were to be reserved for when he would have company coming over.  Thinking back, it's quite amazing that I'm really even okay with wearing lipstick now.  It was used as a weapon against me back then.  It was part of the 'gift wrap' as he called it.  But for this day, when I knew I wouldn't be abused, when I knew I would have my choice of food instead of whatever was set before me (or nothing at all) I was happy and smiling.  For the first time in months I felt like I looked nice.  I didn't look like a bum, or a homeless person, or an abuse victim, or a prostitute, or a 'gift' to a stranger, or a piece of entertainment for a group of people.  For once, I felt like me.  It was a good feeling.  

5. Going out:
The entire family went out to dinner together in a restaurant near the 'caravan park' where we stayed.  While there were the occasional moments of cruel behavior coming from him, they were far more infrequent so that his family wouldn't see or notice.  He was drinking heavily (as usual) and by the end of the night there was a complete meltdown from me, and I ended up angry and crying yet again, but at least I was still dressed and in the relative safety of being near his family.  It had been the first time I'd gone out anywhere for fun without the threat of having someone waiting for us to get back where I would be the evenings' entertainment.  It was a momentary peace of mind.  However, I do remember his sister and brother-in-law having a fight that night.  We were all fairly convinced that was the end of their relationship.  There were clearly some major dysfunctions within the family, so his occasional moments of cruelty to me that did slip through were seen as 'normal' to them.  

6. Threats:
If I hadn't smiled and seemed like a normal person, I would have paid dearly after we returned from the seaside.  But why would I go back with him rather than running away? Well, he had my passport.  I've had people ask why I didn't run to the American embassy.  First of all, I didn't know where it was.  Second, I was pretty sure there wasn't one anywhere near Ayrshire.  Third, without proof of identity, would they even help me?  Fourth, would they believe me?  He was a police officer.  He was a family man.  I was a foreign national with a history of moving fairly frequently.  I wasn't exactly a transient, but I'd been on the run for so long from my previous past that I had no doubt I'd be seen that way.  I'd also been taught to believe that anything I told people would be seen as a falsehood, not just by him but by my upbringing and my own family.  Nobody would believe me. Even now I struggle with the idea that people won't believe me when I tell my truth.  I've just also come to terms with the fact that I no longer care if they do or not.  I'm not telling my story for them.  I tell my story for those who do believe me, and for those who are still trapped in a life of abuse and trafficking, so they don't ever feel as alone as I did.  

7. Goodbyes: 
I mentioned how I adored the kiddos.  That was absolutely true.  This was my chance to say goodbye to them. I knew my visa would be expiring very soon.  I knew that if he didn't marry me (God forbid) that I wouldn't be able to legally stay. That would land him in trouble at work, being a police officer.  But I also knew that he was more than willing to run that risk if I couldn't find a way to convince him otherwise.  So, the "goodbye" here is a double meaning.  I was spending what time I could with the family before my visa expired and he sent me back, or I was spending what time I could with the family before I found a way to end my own life.  I'd already thought enough about it that I knew my plan.  I knew exactly how I would exit the situation by ending me.  I don't know the death statistics of human trafficking victims, but I do know the life statistics. Less than 2% actually survive.  The rest?  They are beaten to death, succumb to drug overdoses, or kill themselves to escape.  I was nearly a death statistic.  I've been frightened to look at those numbers all these years now.  

8. Hope:
The dirtiest of all words.  Hope.  Hope for a better tomorrow. Hope that someone will see.  Hope that someone will understand. Hope that someone will believe.  Hope that I'd be rescued while we were in that seaside village.  Hope that I'd have my one chance to run away and find my way back home.  Hope that he would magically change into the man I'd thought he was for the 7 years I'd known him before going there.  Hope that he'd feel remorse for what he'd done to me.  Hope for a better life.  Hope for a future.  Hope is what drive us onward in the deepest moments of despair and anguish, when everything else is lost.  One of the most devastating sentences I'll ever read in a book is when an author flippantly uses the phrase "all hope was lost" because that moment comes and goes.  Sometimes you have hope, and sometimes you don't.  When all hope is truly lost, there's nothing left to live for.  It was in that moment I found myself lighting what I thought would be my last cigarette in anticipation of a train's arrival only a week later.  I'd always heard it was a quick way to go... a split second of bone turning to pulp, so fast the pain sensors of the brain couldn't process what had happened before the brain itself was destroyed.  But there arrived a young man with a young child, and I knew in that moment I would never scar a child like that.  So, instead, I went back to my prison... and I continued to stay in Hell, with random glimpses of something more rearing up like a random smile in a photo, brought on by a brief moment of peace.. and of hope. 

So why do some trafficking victims smile in some photos? All of these were reasons for me to be smiling in those photos - but all of those reasons had one underlying reason behind them... Hope. 

Calendar Signing

This coming MONDAY, I'll be signing your very own CALENDAR to help support a charity that pairs puppies with combat vets!  If you can come you totally SHOULD come!

Applebee's at 10625 W Alameda Ave, Lakewood, CO 80226

All photography has been by Sassy Knot photography, and you guys know how much we all love her work.  I'll be on MORE than one page of the calendar, so get your boots on, get to the car show, grab your calendar to support an AWESOME cause, and several of us models will be there to sign our names just for you!  If you're extra nice, I might even give you a lipstick kiss print on the page.


https://www.facebook.com/events/561451254390065/

Researching Reality

I still deal with some pretty harsh realities.  Honestly, I just spent the last several hours digging through several YEARS worth of photos for any of me during my captivity in Scotland.  This was, by no means, an easy task I set before myself.  Since that took place in 2011 and my modeling activities were re-launched a few years ago now, there have been quite literally thousands of new photos added since then, and so very few ever taken of me during that time to begin with.  But let me backtrack.  I mentioned harsh realities.

The one I'm facing right now is coming to the realization that there weren't many photos taken of me when I was there other than the photos that documented the abuse I suffered at the hands of the man in charge.  He was 'click happy' with everything he could point his very nice digital camera toward - except a fully clothed me.  He later used those photos as a form of blackmail to attempt to destroy the life I rebuilt for myself after I escaped.

Of my time in Scotland, there were only 48 photos ever taken of me looking like a normal human being.  Of those 48, the majority are duplicates; multiple photos taken at the same moment in time because my eyes were closed in some of them.  In all, there are a total of 12 individual photos I would have displayed on my social media pages back then.  The rest were duplicates of the same moment in time, capturing the facade of an abused individual attempting to put on a brave face to avoid further punishments.

No matter what anyone else can ever see from my photos, I'll always see the pain in my eyes of that realization that the life I'd been promised was taken away from me as easily as my Passport had been when I landed in another country, by someone I thought I could trust.