Before I begin, please know I cry over spilled milk, and it's taken me 50 years to bring this to light. It's also taken me a dozen times to read this aloud before I could share it without crying.
The raw truth
It’s our wedding night in Reno, Nevada. Our room has two queen beds, and the lights are out.
Lying on my right side in the bed nearer the window, I squint my eyes. Even the reflections from casino signs dancing across the floor hurt my head.
The blackout curtains don't quite meet, and the lights peek through the crack.
My back is to the man, who just became my second husband after he shamed me into becoming a prostitute.
Journey overview
I had gone from being date-raped in college in Virginia…
…to a military wife and divorcee in Georgia…
…to the live-in girlfriend of a drug dealer, who almost made me a drug mule coming back from Peru…
…and to being a homeless, worthless human on the streets of Oakland, California.
Then when I saw bright yellow instead of white in my eyes, I went to a free clinic.
From the hospital back to the streets
They admitted me to a community hospital where they discovered I had more to worry about than hepatitis — a virulent strain of gonorrhea.
After two humiliating weeks in the hospital, I was released in the same filthy clothes I wore when admitted.
No home. No friends. No family.
My mother was 3000 miles away, and every few months we talked briefly. I always lied on the phone. I never told her where I was on any level.
My brother was in the US Air Force and had just returned from being stationed overseas. That was in the mid-1970s before cell phones, and it had been nearly a year since we talked about nothing.
I had lost all hope and didn't care if I lived or died.
What two dollars buys
With only two bucks, I went into the first corner bar. It was dark enough inside to hide. I headed straight for the stool at the far end of the bar and sat down quickly.
As I nursed a ginger ale, an old, bald man sat down with a stool between us. He noticed the hospital wristband I was still wearing, and asked, “Where is your home?”
I shrugged and shook my head. He was kind, bought me a meal, and asked me to come home with him.
I didn't care where I went. Any place was better than being on the streets — or so I thought.
Newfound hope
He bathed me. Fed me. Pampered me, and took his time gently making love to me. Never forcing. Always asking permission.
He caressed my breasts and suckled my nipples — first soft, then firm and harder until I begged for more:
“Please, don't stop… more…
…yesssss…
…please…
…oh… God!”
I lay there satisfied. He had replaced my desire to die with a glimmer of hope.
As I drifted off to sleep, he stroked my back and whispered in my ear, “Turn over, please. You’re not done yet.”
He took out his teeth and gave me pleasure I'd never experienced before.
One night became a week, a month, then two. I was the center of his attention.
He saw value in my body; took me to the Vidal Sassoon hair salon in San Francisco; and hired a photographer to create a model’s portfolio.
One after another, modeling agencies told me that I was too tall at 6’5”, too fat at 150, and too old at 25.
After giving me shelter, clothes, and taking care of me, he told me, “You’re too expensive to be useless.”
He expected me to make money and pull my weight.
Looking back, I was never a streetwalker. Since he treasured my physicality that I failed to see, I was a high-class call girl who commanded the highest prices.
At first, he was the one negotiating the fee, until I was desensitized to asking myself.
My constant companion
On our wedding night, I lay beside him and felt an ache deep in my gut — an ache that was my constant companion.
But on our wedding night, I felt relief. There was not going to be sex with him, because of the painful female procedure I had the day before. It still hurt, and the doctor said no sex for two weeks.
Phew… Thank goodness.
Taking a deep breath and letting out a long sigh, I gave thanks for the unexpected blessing found within the physical pain.
Since there would be no sex on our wedding night, we’re sharing a double room with two of our working girls, who were my bride’s maids.
They're in the other queen bed nearest the bathroom, and I felt him move and get out of bed. I figured he needed to pee.
Moments later, I hear creaking from the other bed. Then, faster and faster and faster.
I silently gasp! F*uck!
My husband is having sex with his favorite. Through his actions, he tells me, his wife, that I have no worth, except as a piece of meat.
What the f*uck can I do to get out of this situation?
Why even publish this ugly in Poker’s Life Lessons
The primary lesson here is learning to fold early and fold often. The longer you stay in a losing hand, the harder it is to let go.
1/ One of the biggest problems in poker is playing too many hands.
Such as limping in just to see the next card in Texas Hold’em.
My motto for years in poker journalism has been, “If you can't raise, don't call.”
That translates well to life.
2/ The second bigger problem in poker is throwing good money after bad.
Even when you know you have a losing hand, you stay in the hand hoping for a miracle.
I've seen multiple relationships where it was obvious from the outside that it was not working.
How often have you told a dear friend, “You should leave him, her, or them!”
Think about how many times you've seen a struggling entrepreneur open a business they think they need without having any structure in place.
3/ The third bigger problem is being afraid to take calculated risks.
Looking at all this from my intimate situation, from the frantic poker player's point of view and that of a struggling entrepreneur, the two common threads are playing from both the victim and the lack mindset.
I'm sick and tired of holding onto truths that have burned deep holes into my soul.
In the last two episodes, I shared what I had never before openly admitted in public:
My original post was more than 5k words, and I figured that was too much word vomit for you to stomach. So I brought them down and divided them into several posts.
Saying all this, I admit I'm still holding onto some shame, and I'm afraid you’ll judge me.
But, letting go and speaking up, you are my confidant. This is a priceless therapy session.
I pray this holds value for you.
But if it doesn't, that's okay. Bye. Bye.
More to the gritty story
After I married my second husband, who by all definitions was my pimp, I became what others would call a Madam.
To find the positive in the worst situation behind his back, I made it my mission to rescue run-away girls over 18, who had been enslaved by drugs.
There was a benefit of being married to a Sicilian who claimed he was a “made” man, one who said he had sworn the code of silence and honor to an Italian family.
Without me having any contact with The Family, I doubted he was vetted until it became my invisible armor.
I had built a relationship with shelters that took in prostitutes and provided them with housing, food, healthcare, and training.
A badly beaten girl agreed to go to the shelter but insisted she get her belongings from the motel. I tried desperately to convince her to leave it, but she insisted.
While we were in her motel room, her pimp came in and was furious. He drew a gun and aimed it at me.
I stood tall and told him, “WAIT! I'm married to (HIS NAME)!”
He halted in his tracks and lowered his gun.
He was a light-skinned black man, who turned pale, and backed away stammering, “Then, get the hell out of here! She's worth nothing!”
When my husband found out I was taking the girls to shelters, he screamed, “Stop it, or I'll kill you!”
I was terrified and knew I had to find a way to leave. With only a small amount of money stashed away, I went to the local police.
Well-dressed as a woman lawyer or banker would be, I confessed my crime and told them about my husband. They laughed at me.
The police captain said, “We can't do anything about this because it’s domestic and… you are NOT important.”
Since we were married in Nevada and took two girls with us across the state line from California, I went to the FBI.
They, too, dismissed me saying this was domestic, and as I left the FBI office, I heard one agent say to another, “Who does that cunt think she is?”
That's all I have to say today.
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Know that regardless of what you've experienced, you are special just the way you are.
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I'm creating a judgment-free zone, and I ask you to become a paid subscriber so that I can continue baring my soul, as the Unmuffled MindShift Mechanic, who’s lovingly called The Betty White of Substack.
Betty White was the first woman to receive an Emmy nomination, made us smile on the toughest days, and was known as the First Lady on Television on PBS.
For me:
I am proud I am a nominee to the Women of Poker Hall of Fame.
My quest is, and always has been, to make you smile on the toughest days.
But, I’m not a lady, I’m a f*cking poker player striving to play crappy cards life deals me as if I’ve already won.
Reach out and share
Share with a friend or colleague who might be stuck in their past. We are a sum of our experiences, but we are not labeled by them. Unless we choose that label.
I love who I am today and thank you for staying with me and sharing my truths.
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Speed-Shift Your Self-Talk: Turn Your Self-Doubt Into Your Ally
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Looking back over more than half a century, there is one thing I know for sure: What we say to ourselves and the words we choose set us up for either success or failure.
Even during the darkest time, I choose to find ways to change my perspective through my inner dialogue.
Mastering self-talk is my superpower, and I decided to share that process directly with you. Short. Simple. And to the point.
It’s the exact technology I developed to reframe your thoughts, reprogram your self-talk, and transform your life.
Until next time, I love you just the way that you are even if we don’t agree.
Consider yourself hugged,
I’m Donna Blevins
Known as the Unmuffled MindShift Mechanic and the Big Girl of Poker at 6’5”
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