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Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Kidnapped. Beaten…and beyond. © 2010 Dakini Verona Beaches and Bikers.

Kidnapped. Beaten…and beyond. © 2010 Dakini Verona

Beaches and Bikers.

The fateful beach party or the first time I was beaten and brutalized.



Do you have any idea how hard it is to see those words on this blank screen? My heart aches. My pulse quickens. My eyes tear uncontrollably. Not a memory I want to keep. Oh, no. not a memory I want to necessarily relive either. But there again is the paradox. I must purge them all. Those demons inside. Once they are out, once they are released I can put it all into perspective. I will be able to stand back and see how the years have un-warped the skewed sense of time. During trauma our minds have a funny way of distorting time. If you have ever been in an accident, you may know what I am referring to. Yes, your life does flash before your eyes in a mere few seconds. Just imagine that you are in that accident, but instead of it lasting 30 seconds, it lasts 30 minutes. Now, imagine it lasting 3 hours. As a victim of violence those 3 hours seem like more than 3 lifetimes.

Our minds have some safety mechanisms. It shuts off when the pain is too great to bear. Just like you hear those stories when people have lost a limb. The sensors turn off and all you feel is numb. Well, it is similar to that when you are brutalized. Your sensors turn off and your body becomes numb. Sometimes your consciousness even leaves your body. Sometimes you just pass out. This was one of those times, thankfully.

I was 14 years old and still living at home with my mom and dad. We were at our winter home, in Nokomis, Florida. I was still naïve, but had lost my innocence first at 7 and again at 13. Sad that this is the story that so many survivors can tell. One incidence leads to another and another and another, ad nauseam. If only I was able to see where that path was leading… if only I could have known that self destruction rarely works in the long run. But I had to numb my pain. Had to find a way to connect to someone. And was hoping that there would be no more pain. Little did I know how this would end.

Being a cute and bright teenager, I had a lot of invitations to parties. I didn’t get along with many of the other girls in town, but the boys were always friendly. I now understand how it must have been purely hormones that influenced the boys and it was instinctual territorial behavior that kept those girls from becoming friends with me. So when I was invited to a beach party by a few of the local cuties (boys) I jumped at the chance to hang out, get a lot of attention and most likely drink myself to oblivion.

I can’t remember what I told my parents, but I am sure it was a well fabricated lie. They probably did not want to deal with me, so they just convinced themselves to buy into my story. I was not easy to deal with, I am sure. I got a ride out to the open beach area south of the public beaches. It was deserted, the perfect beach for a wild party.


We pulled up and I saw the bonfire going strong. It was a December night and the night air had a bit of a chill, which was rather unusual for this part of Florida. Maybe it was my senses giving me a warning to turn back. Regardless, I did not heed the sign. There were lots of really cute looking boys and I wanted the attention from someone special. He had long blond hair which hung down to almost to his waist. His skin was bronze and fit well over his defined swimmer’s body. He must have been about 21 years old. I didn’t care, I wanted to have him pay attention to me. I was surprisingly shy, until I had indulged in some liquid courage. Thunderbird, I think it was, or maybe Boone’s Farm. Whichever it was, it was one of those disgustingly sweet, cheap drinks that bums and teens drink. The kind that tasted really rancid coming back up.

I managed to avoid any problems at the party, in spite of the fact that a bike gang rode up and joined us as the fire was dying down. They were rough and wild and a bit too “touchy”, but they were reasonably harmless compared to what happened next.




I remembered how little the police had done the  first time I had reported this type of crime. They told me to shut up, live my life and never talk about it again. But this time, I knew that creep would pay. I did shut up, lived my life and never talked about it again.




12 comments:

  1. Hi there Dakini Verona..Love reading your blog.Keep on writing,i`m sure to come back and read more.

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  2. I love your blog and I have saved the page. I always love reading about the 60's & 70's and any stories of "hippies". Always feeling I was born in the wrong decade. Maybe its just from my parents and being a kid in the mid to late 70s. I dont know. By the time I was born (74) they were all gone. Thanks for sharing your story. Keep up the good work! :)

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  3. I admire your courage and writing skills.
    You're doing very well.
    Thank you

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  4. Thank you for taking the time to read my story.. I will continue to share my life, one story at a time. I have been touched by those that have reached out to tell me how my stories have given them courage to speak about about past and current situations. I know now, that there is a reason for it all.

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  5. Thank you for shining the light on all of it, releasing it, so that it may release it's hold on your energy. We are all one, and until we return to full awareness of this eternal Reality, sharing our stories can be a beneficial part of the healing reminder that leads us back to our wholeness.

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  6. Everpresence.. I appreciate the support. Healing is a lifelong process... I am hoping that my words will help others struggling with taking that first step. Speaking about it does not, as we were led to believe in the past, give power.. it actually gives US power. We (survivors) need to take that back from those that took it from us.

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  7. ruthgroessel62@att.netOctober 27, 2010 at 10:21 AM

    just want to say i respect what your doing, and i ve thought about what all ive been through, you,ve helped . didn,t even realize how deep inside it still stings a little..........keep up the words ,your really great.:)

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  8. Thank you for the kind words of encouragement. I hope to get through all the rough stories and then move on to some of those that can be more inspiring.. those about my beautiful children and grand children.. those about going to school after being a drop out at 15, finishing college and then going for an advanced degree. My life now is very different.. I am an Association Executive: Chief of Education for an international not for profit organization. I own a home and have a wonderful, loving husband.

    Life is very different for me now.

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  9. I must say i'm hooked to your blogs..I always say to myself that i'm born in the wrong decade..love reading anything about 60's & your blogs are just wondefull..your true life accounts run infront of me..

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  10. Read your experience of pain with fascination. Got your message on IrememberJFK.com. I am a big fan of Primal Therapy as promoted by Dr. Arthur Janov. The process is exactly as you described. I know the numbest you describe.

    I ask a probing question or 2. I agree bikers have a lot of power. Is it possible police work with some of them rather than against them?

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  11. Apollo,

    I have never known any biker to work with cops.. but I am sure here are those who would.

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  12. I should change that. they don't work with cops directly. They work with those much higher. Cops are also instructed by those much higher to lay off certain ones. Just a proposition. The drug war is a phony war. Drugs are good money for those in power.

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