Neon Teens and Funky Beats Volume I

Growing up Gen X meant freedom, cassette tapes, and rules that ended when the streetlights came on. But at the age of thirteen, the line between childhood innocence and adult terror is razor-thin. Thirty years later, one woman looks back at the neon-soaked spring and summer of her youth in 1985-and the fateful, forbidden slumber party escape that turned a night of innocent rebellion into a desperate fight to outrun a predator.

As an adult now, I think back to growing up in the 80s and how nobody warns you about the lurker who hides in the dark, watching your every move.

If I had known back then what I know now, things would have been different.

Pulling up in my driveway, I sat there for a moment, thinking about work today. Detective work is not for the squeamish.

There are a lot of specific details to gather, and building timelines of crimes takes a lot of analytic thinking, which is harder than people think.

As my head is rolling against the headrest, I shut my eyes to bask in the sun shining through the windshield, taking a moment of silence for myself before I go into the house.

As I slowly opened my eyes and looked in the rearview mirror, I let out a scream and jerked myself up so hard!

"S***!!!"

My pulse hammered in my throat as my heart drummed wildly against my chest, and I pressed my hand on my sternum as if I could hold it still.

Hyperventilation has taken control. The way I turned my head around in a cryptic manner, like one of those creepy dolls in a horror movie.

For a moment, I thought I saw him in the backseat just staring at me with those black, beady eyes... this was something from my past that came straight for me like vengeance.

I shook my face and arms, trying to shake the fear off. Then, as I stepped out my car, I heard a whirring sound on the pavement and felt a breeze blowing through my hair.

Two teenage girls zipped by on roller skates, laughing out loud with their hair flopping in the wind.

A smile emerges as I stare at the teen girls, thinking back to my own teen years. I looked down, and a euphoric feeling came over me.

Something about the 80s decade makes me feel elated, but then I whispered out something that I have not said in a long time...The Red Man.

Now my feeling of euphoria swiftly changes into fear; I shake it off before that scary feeling lingers on way too long than it needs to at that moment.

Returning to the girls whisking by on their skates seconds ago because I need to change my mood quickly.

"Wow, it's been awhile since kids roller-skated outside here on the street." Saying to myself.

Looking at teens today using their smartphones and remembering how I was a teen walking around and exploring neighborhoods with my friends and sister.

The way kids in the 80s just gathered on foot, with BMX bikes, or roller skates and listened to our music on a cassette tape player brings on a nostalgic feeling for me.

I finally made it to the front door, and it felt like a ton as I opened it, and the keys made a jingling sound as I placed them on the table.

The couch looked so inviting with the soft cushions. I surrendered and embraced the sofa, collapsing onto the plush pillows and sinking in deeper.

Reflecting on my day, one of my cases haunted me. Most of my cases haunt me, but some just are more violent and shocking which leads people in this type of job to an early burnout.

My work involves investigating crimes for the municipal police department in a small neighborhood in New Jersey.

There are days when it is slow, and other days you get hit with 10 new cases. Crime has no time, it happens when it happens.

Predictability can be a struggle, but not impossible.

My husband walks in the living room and sees me plopped on the couch,

“How was your day?” Mark asked.

“My days are stressful, on a daily basis.”

“I know and it’s not easy for you to see certain things.”

“Today on the surveillance equipment, I witnessed 15 teenagers jump one kid and by the time the police showed up, the poor kid’s head had lumps the sizes of baseballs all over his head.”

“Oh man, that is horrible!” Mark shrieks.

“Soon after, I saw a mother being attacked, and I thought of me with Shawn.” Shawn is our son.

Watching that incident, I do not know how I would ever cope if that was me.

As I'm having an overwhelming feeling of being overloaded from the horrific crimes I deal with, it causes a headache, which elicits me to rub my temples to help soothe me.

This happens when I allow the faces of the victims to appear in my mind.

Sexual assault cases triggers my anxiety more than anything else.

I used to be a sexual assault advocate, and the stories invaded my mind so badly that I kept having the same nightmare of dark, faceless figures shrouding me before they attacked me.

Every time a new victim told me their story, pieces of it would stick to me and remain inside my brain.

And every time I would think that is the worst thing I ever heard or seen, something worse comes along.

Sexual advocacy strains the heart and mind because I wanted to help them so badly. Maybe it is because I was once a victim myself and know how they feel.

The trapped box is the worst consequence to have because it traps all your emotions inside.

Being a victim takes your voice and power away. There are moments I want to scream, but nothing comes out.

It is extremely important that victims think of themselves as survivors, because this is where you get your strength back.

I worked in that field as long as I could until I burned out, and soon after I moved to a new position in criminal investigations.

Similar cases, but being a sexual advocate, the difference is that you are more intimate with your clients and know more personal details, which affected my mental health.

Either way, both jobs are extremely rough but can be rewarding, knowing how you can help hundreds of victims in the long-run.

“Are you going to be ok?” Mark asked as he hunched his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, giving a look of worry.

“I just see too much violence these days, and each victim’s story gets more emotionally taxing for me. I want to help them all, but I know I can’t. There are some things I can’t control or stop.”

"That's understandable. I know you see the worst of things, and each time it takes a toll on your mental well-being. I feel like your job is like a shark, and takes chunks out of you each time you start a fresh case. Maybe we should go on vacation soon?"

My son, Shawn, entered the room, and when he heard the word 'vacation', he immediately yelled out, "YESSS!!"

I smiled and said, "Sounds like a great idea, and I need some time off." My son's eyes widened with wonder as he gazed at me and his father, then hugged me. I could get a million hugs from him and it still would not be enough. I love him to the moon and back. He is my everything.

I looked back over to my husband, "By the way, I saw two girls roller-skating on the street when I pulled up the driveway. It made me think of my friends when we used to do that. Those were the days. I miss the 80s."

But I did not mention to my husband that I imagined him in the backseat and scaring myself to death, him- meaning the stalker from my childhood in the past.

He was the biggest factor that motivated me to become an investigator and involved with sexual advocacy.

What happened to me as a young teen girl, set the tone on how I entered relationships and lack of trust of people.

Mark walks over and places his hand on my shoulder, glances at me, and then replies with sincerity,

"Try to relax on the couch for now. You need a break. I will cook dinner tonight."

That made me feel relieved and supported. We don't have the perfect marriage, but who does? Marriage is 24/7 work, constant work, but supporting each other.

I could never understand how some people make a marriage out to be some perfect fairytale.

Since people are not perfect, one cannot expect marriage to be perfect.

People make mistakes, and only you know your own compromises, your deal breakers.

Never place someone on a pedestal, because you will always end up disappointed.

Communication is the key, but sometimes that does not happen.

Look at me, I was too nervous to tell my husband the truth about what happened a moment ago in the car. Humans, we are fallible creatures.

That's why I say don't place someone on a pedestal; you have to leave room for mistakes.

Shawn comes towards me, sits next to me on the couch for a few minutes, and shows me his Lego toys.

He hovers his hands over the miniature characters and spaceship, not touching them but more like presenting them to me with pride.

“Mommy these are the stormtroopers I built, and look here is baby Grogu.”

“Aww so cute.” Looking at his face light up as he shows me his toys.

My son is always building and creating with these toys. It is his favorite thing to do, and his imagination reminds me of myself when I was his age.

He is 11, and I can relate because my sister and I still played with dolls at that age, even up to 13. We had the wildest imaginations.

At that moment I looked down, now remembering my youth; my son grabbed my hand and then buried his tiny face into mine and feeling the warmth radiate between us.

This is when I know my son feels safe. He is a sweet boy; we are so blessed that he is in our lives.

Shawn spreads the toys all over the couch, but then immediately grabs them and runs into his room as if he has a new idea of what to build next.

Smiling, just admiring that energy and missing the days of innocent dreams and creativity.

Thinking in silence, "I could use that in my life right about now." My family is truly unique and this helped build my character, before the stalking incident.

Which ironically when that occurred, everything afterwards came rushing down like the domino effect of traumatic things in my life.