Give Me Confidence
Abandoning the Louboutins
"SHEA GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW"
"PLEASE NO PLEASE NO.... PLEASE NO!"
It was happening again tonight. He was attacking me. He was hitting me. He was kicking me. He was pulling my hair. He wasn't stopping.
I was dating LA Laker, Pau Gasol, he was a sick man. I moved to LA from Chicago 4 years ago in 2009 to pursue my career in the fashion industry. I made a name for myself. Paparazzi followed me around. The biggest stars wore my clothes on the red carpet and on the streets. My friends included the biggest A-listers you could think of. And I was only 21 years old. I met Pau through a mutual friend and we hit off quite nicely. He met my parents. I met his in his hometown of Barcelona. We were like the a watered down version of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. But just like Tom and Katie, our relationship went bad.
He beated me. Everyday, every night, every waking moment. It started off as a little punch in the arm and escalated quickly. He was insane. He put a chip in my phone. He made me lie to my mom and when she asked how I was doing, with a gun to my head, he would make me say everything is great. I couldn't fly back to Chicago to see my family. I couldn't make a business call to my partners without him listening to every word. i couldn't go with him to attend any of the lavish parties that the team had because my body was bruised, he told them I wasn't feeling well or was at work. When we would come home, he would attack me then force me to have sex with him. I guess you can consider it rape because I was defenetly was not enjoying it. I couldn't try to escape while he was at practice or a game because there was paparazzi outside our house, and he would catch me. Everyday I stared at my large backyard looking for a way to escape. I studied the hedges that divided my property to one of my best friends, Victoria Beckham, who I wasn't able to see. Im couldn't call her or text her or email her about what was going on without physco fuck giving me a black eye. I would stay in this hell and wait for him to come home and prepare my body for the next round of bruises. I know your thinking why the hell I wouldn't fight back, and trust me, I would if I could have, but he was 7'1 and 250 pounds. I on the other hand, am 5'5 and a whopping 110 pounds. Maybe 100 at the time because sometimes he wouldn't let me eat. Then, the day came. The day I would either die. Or escape.
Thursday, February 18 2009 7:00AM
The Lakers were playing Boston tonight. The day started out normally. Woke up with a gun to my head. Walked down the stairs with a gun to my head. Poured my cereal with a gun to my head. Sat at the table with a gun to my head. Slapped across the face. I think he may of bit me too. I don't remember. He then proceeded to kiss me and make his way to morning practice. I would make sure the house was spotless, but I knew that wouldn't matter. He'll beat me when he got home no matter what I do,
12:30PM
I heard the garage door open. My body tensed up. Here he came. Here comes the blows. I sat in the living room with my MacBook on my lap, looking over my final designs for my summer collection. He walked up to me, didn't say a word, took the computer from my hands, looked at the screen, then proceeded to smash it against the wall. Great. But by all means buddy, break the laptop, don't break me. I showed no emotion when I looked at him. I didn't cry anymore. I didn't smile anymore. My brown eyes were grey and my normally perfectly tanned skin was white. I ran out of make up a month ago and had no way of getting anymore. I was already dead. I sat with my arms crossed starring. Not at him but in the abyss. There used to be so much love in this house, now its just walls. We had pictures of us everywhere., but they were shattered or thrown at me.
He smiled down at me and walked away, off to our bedroom for his pregame nap. I made my way back to the kitchen to look what I would make for prepare his pregame meal. I sat at the dining room table and stared at the back yard, looking for an escape. It was huge.
4:00PM
I heard those dreaded hard foot steps coming down the stairs. I continued chopping up the onion as he wrapped his arms around me. I'm supposed to get butterflies and swoon in his arms or shiver at his touch. I did nothing. I didn't even tense up. He attached his lips to my neck. I let out a forced moan to please him and he grabbed the arm with the knife and said, "I like to play with knives too." He pushed me forward hard into the counter. Grabbed the knife from my hand. I had to fight back this time. Each time he had the gun, I wasn't sacred, I knew we wasn't going to shoot it. But when there were knives, I was terrified. I kicked him in the balls, hard. He fell to the floor and I tried to run out of the room. He grabbed my ankle and pulled my down to the hardwood floors. I didn't make a noise. I knew he was going to stab me. He put the knife down a pinned me down. He punched me in the face. Then again. Then again. And again. I could feel the raccoon eyes forming. My nose was bleeding. My lip was swelling up. My head was pounding. I had to use all my power and this time, I had to stab him.
4:18
My foot met his balls again but he kept me down. With one hand he grabbed the knife, the other still holding me down to the ground. On my arms he created little lines. Not deep enough for me to bleed to death but deep enough to bleed out. Then my stomach. Followed by my legs. Far from perfect lines, probably 8 in total. I didn't cry. I didn't flinch. I didn't make a noise. I lie there motionless as he cut my skin. He then raised the knife over his head. Here it comes. He's going to full on stab me. He's about to kill me in 5...4...3...2....
4:28
I have no clue where the strength came from, but I used every muscle in my body, I pushed up and knocked the knife out of his hands. We were both a bunch of limbs fighting for the it. I was bleeding heavy out of the cuts and they were getting all over his suit. Boo who. Being a high end fashion designer, it always pained me to see the expensive clothes get dirty, but this time, I wanted every ounce that came out of me to be in that suit. Better yet, I wanted every ounce inside him be on that suit.
4:34
After very long minutes of fighting for dominance, I won. I stood up and yet again kicked him where it hurts. His eyes rolled back in pain. I kicked him repeatedly and then, with both my hands, jabbed the knife into his side. He'll be out for a few months with a lower body injury. I scurried off the ground. He pulled the knife out and was struggling to get up.
4:36
I kicked off my louboutins. Though all of this, they were the only thing that made me feel like a woman. What can I say, I'm a girls girl. I wore them everyday. Or at least some type of heel, to give me that little boast of confidence those 5 inches gave you.
I ran around the dining room table. He was almost to his feet. I ran. I didn't stop. I kept going. It was raining hard. It was my first time out of that house in 3 months.
1 Mississippi: I ran down the flight of 15 steps.
2 Mississippi: I dodged the furniture on the patio.
3 Mississippi: I'm sprinting next to the pool deck.
4 Mississippi: I ran straight across the basketball court.
5 Mississippi: I reach the never ending grass yard.
6 Mississippi: I reach the hedge.
7 Mississippi: I'm on all fours struggling through the muddy ground. I'm soaking wet. Dirt is getting in my wounds and new scratches are getting added into my collection.
8 Mississippi: I reach Victoria Beckham's yard. My j Brand capris are ripped and shredded and my black T by Alexander Wang t shirt has blood and mud on it.
9 Mississippi: i run the length of their yard. Thank god it's not nearly as long as mine.
10 Mississippi: I hesitate. My bloody knuckles reach the perfectly cleaned French door, her cleaning lady must've been there today. I frantically knock on the door. Hard. Non-Stop.
11 Mississippi: David answers the door. I latered leaned his 3 boys and Victoira were out running errands after they got home from school. He calls the police.
Pau Gasol was out indefinite with a lower body injury.
Because he abused a woman, he never played another game of NBA in his life. He disowned his family. His teammates. His hometown of Barcelona, Spain. And the city of Los Angeles.
I don't know why I ever dated a basketball player. My grandfather and father were some of the greatest hockey players of all time. It was in my blood, and lucky for me, I didn't bleed one ounce of that out.
3 months after liberation
Pau was put in jail for a god awful amount of time in LA. I moved back to Chicago into trump international hotel and towers. My condo was filled with get well, sorry, all types of cards. Gift baskets. Stuffed animals. Chocolate. Everything. The story was everywhere and lasted a long time. From ABC7 Chicago to World News to CNN to practically every single country tams channel that had a news station. Everyone and their brother followed the court hearing and were 100% satisfied with the verdict. I was interview by Barbra Walters, Oprah, and Anderson Copper, each interview breaking tv viewing records. The Lakers did get some bad press, but the team didn't abuse me, he did (We are going to refrain from using his name now), and I couldn't stress that enough. The sport of basketball or the team should not be beamed or even hated now for his actions. My bruises faded. I had 20 stitches in total put it, then removed. And I, getting better now. I'll be ok.
Now all I have are a few battle scars and the memory of those 65 nights in my mind.
"PLEASE NO PLEASE NO.... PLEASE NO!"
It was happening again tonight. He was attacking me. He was hitting me. He was kicking me. He was pulling my hair. He wasn't stopping.
I was dating LA Laker, Pau Gasol, he was a sick man. I moved to LA from Chicago 4 years ago in 2009 to pursue my career in the fashion industry. I made a name for myself. Paparazzi followed me around. The biggest stars wore my clothes on the red carpet and on the streets. My friends included the biggest A-listers you could think of. And I was only 21 years old. I met Pau through a mutual friend and we hit off quite nicely. He met my parents. I met his in his hometown of Barcelona. We were like the a watered down version of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. But just like Tom and Katie, our relationship went bad.
He beated me. Everyday, every night, every waking moment. It started off as a little punch in the arm and escalated quickly. He was insane. He put a chip in my phone. He made me lie to my mom and when she asked how I was doing, with a gun to my head, he would make me say everything is great. I couldn't fly back to Chicago to see my family. I couldn't make a business call to my partners without him listening to every word. i couldn't go with him to attend any of the lavish parties that the team had because my body was bruised, he told them I wasn't feeling well or was at work. When we would come home, he would attack me then force me to have sex with him. I guess you can consider it rape because I was defenetly was not enjoying it. I couldn't try to escape while he was at practice or a game because there was paparazzi outside our house, and he would catch me. Everyday I stared at my large backyard looking for a way to escape. I studied the hedges that divided my property to one of my best friends, Victoria Beckham, who I wasn't able to see. Im couldn't call her or text her or email her about what was going on without physco fuck giving me a black eye. I would stay in this hell and wait for him to come home and prepare my body for the next round of bruises. I know your thinking why the hell I wouldn't fight back, and trust me, I would if I could have, but he was 7'1 and 250 pounds. I on the other hand, am 5'5 and a whopping 110 pounds. Maybe 100 at the time because sometimes he wouldn't let me eat. Then, the day came. The day I would either die. Or escape.
Thursday, February 18 2009 7:00AM
The Lakers were playing Boston tonight. The day started out normally. Woke up with a gun to my head. Walked down the stairs with a gun to my head. Poured my cereal with a gun to my head. Sat at the table with a gun to my head. Slapped across the face. I think he may of bit me too. I don't remember. He then proceeded to kiss me and make his way to morning practice. I would make sure the house was spotless, but I knew that wouldn't matter. He'll beat me when he got home no matter what I do,
12:30PM
I heard the garage door open. My body tensed up. Here he came. Here comes the blows. I sat in the living room with my MacBook on my lap, looking over my final designs for my summer collection. He walked up to me, didn't say a word, took the computer from my hands, looked at the screen, then proceeded to smash it against the wall. Great. But by all means buddy, break the laptop, don't break me. I showed no emotion when I looked at him. I didn't cry anymore. I didn't smile anymore. My brown eyes were grey and my normally perfectly tanned skin was white. I ran out of make up a month ago and had no way of getting anymore. I was already dead. I sat with my arms crossed starring. Not at him but in the abyss. There used to be so much love in this house, now its just walls. We had pictures of us everywhere., but they were shattered or thrown at me.
He smiled down at me and walked away, off to our bedroom for his pregame nap. I made my way back to the kitchen to look what I would make for prepare his pregame meal. I sat at the dining room table and stared at the back yard, looking for an escape. It was huge.
4:00PM
I heard those dreaded hard foot steps coming down the stairs. I continued chopping up the onion as he wrapped his arms around me. I'm supposed to get butterflies and swoon in his arms or shiver at his touch. I did nothing. I didn't even tense up. He attached his lips to my neck. I let out a forced moan to please him and he grabbed the arm with the knife and said, "I like to play with knives too." He pushed me forward hard into the counter. Grabbed the knife from my hand. I had to fight back this time. Each time he had the gun, I wasn't sacred, I knew we wasn't going to shoot it. But when there were knives, I was terrified. I kicked him in the balls, hard. He fell to the floor and I tried to run out of the room. He grabbed my ankle and pulled my down to the hardwood floors. I didn't make a noise. I knew he was going to stab me. He put the knife down a pinned me down. He punched me in the face. Then again. Then again. And again. I could feel the raccoon eyes forming. My nose was bleeding. My lip was swelling up. My head was pounding. I had to use all my power and this time, I had to stab him.
4:18
My foot met his balls again but he kept me down. With one hand he grabbed the knife, the other still holding me down to the ground. On my arms he created little lines. Not deep enough for me to bleed to death but deep enough to bleed out. Then my stomach. Followed by my legs. Far from perfect lines, probably 8 in total. I didn't cry. I didn't flinch. I didn't make a noise. I lie there motionless as he cut my skin. He then raised the knife over his head. Here it comes. He's going to full on stab me. He's about to kill me in 5...4...3...2....
4:28
I have no clue where the strength came from, but I used every muscle in my body, I pushed up and knocked the knife out of his hands. We were both a bunch of limbs fighting for the it. I was bleeding heavy out of the cuts and they were getting all over his suit. Boo who. Being a high end fashion designer, it always pained me to see the expensive clothes get dirty, but this time, I wanted every ounce that came out of me to be in that suit. Better yet, I wanted every ounce inside him be on that suit.
4:34
After very long minutes of fighting for dominance, I won. I stood up and yet again kicked him where it hurts. His eyes rolled back in pain. I kicked him repeatedly and then, with both my hands, jabbed the knife into his side. He'll be out for a few months with a lower body injury. I scurried off the ground. He pulled the knife out and was struggling to get up.
4:36
I kicked off my louboutins. Though all of this, they were the only thing that made me feel like a woman. What can I say, I'm a girls girl. I wore them everyday. Or at least some type of heel, to give me that little boast of confidence those 5 inches gave you.
I ran around the dining room table. He was almost to his feet. I ran. I didn't stop. I kept going. It was raining hard. It was my first time out of that house in 3 months.
1 Mississippi: I ran down the flight of 15 steps.
2 Mississippi: I dodged the furniture on the patio.
3 Mississippi: I'm sprinting next to the pool deck.
4 Mississippi: I ran straight across the basketball court.
5 Mississippi: I reach the never ending grass yard.
6 Mississippi: I reach the hedge.
7 Mississippi: I'm on all fours struggling through the muddy ground. I'm soaking wet. Dirt is getting in my wounds and new scratches are getting added into my collection.
8 Mississippi: I reach Victoria Beckham's yard. My j Brand capris are ripped and shredded and my black T by Alexander Wang t shirt has blood and mud on it.
9 Mississippi: i run the length of their yard. Thank god it's not nearly as long as mine.
10 Mississippi: I hesitate. My bloody knuckles reach the perfectly cleaned French door, her cleaning lady must've been there today. I frantically knock on the door. Hard. Non-Stop.
11 Mississippi: David answers the door. I latered leaned his 3 boys and Victoira were out running errands after they got home from school. He calls the police.
Pau Gasol was out indefinite with a lower body injury.
Because he abused a woman, he never played another game of NBA in his life. He disowned his family. His teammates. His hometown of Barcelona, Spain. And the city of Los Angeles.
I don't know why I ever dated a basketball player. My grandfather and father were some of the greatest hockey players of all time. It was in my blood, and lucky for me, I didn't bleed one ounce of that out.
3 months after liberation
Pau was put in jail for a god awful amount of time in LA. I moved back to Chicago into trump international hotel and towers. My condo was filled with get well, sorry, all types of cards. Gift baskets. Stuffed animals. Chocolate. Everything. The story was everywhere and lasted a long time. From ABC7 Chicago to World News to CNN to practically every single country tams channel that had a news station. Everyone and their brother followed the court hearing and were 100% satisfied with the verdict. I was interview by Barbra Walters, Oprah, and Anderson Copper, each interview breaking tv viewing records. The Lakers did get some bad press, but the team didn't abuse me, he did (We are going to refrain from using his name now), and I couldn't stress that enough. The sport of basketball or the team should not be beamed or even hated now for his actions. My bruises faded. I had 20 stitches in total put it, then removed. And I, getting better now. I'll be ok.
Now all I have are a few battle scars and the memory of those 65 nights in my mind.
The Blackhawks one the Stanley cup that year. My grandfather Bobby Hull was obviously thrilled and even though my father didn't play for his hometown team, he was still a part of the win, sort of, after become a scout for the team in 2003 after he retired. Winning many Stanley cups and the most goals in the history of the NHL. He gave his dad a run for his money. His name is Sean Hull.
It's a coincidence actually my name is Shae
1/22/14