When I was 18 and newly married (for the sake of financial aid) to a guy who was turning out to be nothing like the person I’d believed him to be, I got a job stripping.
I was horrible at it. I had no rhythm and no hustle, but I was the youngest woman at the club by at least 15 years, so I paid the rent.
A year later, I’d been kicked out of my apartment, my car broke down in a strange town, and it was February, cold as hell. So I ended up living with a man over twice my age, a man I despised, a man who was physically abusive to me. I ended up making a suicidal gesture for the sole reason of getting the hell out, and getting into a system where the social safety net was there to catch me. I had to literally try to kill myself to get onto that net, though.
Survival is survival. I am grateful that I wasn’t burdened with a bunch of pseudo-moral bullshit that kept me from doing what needed to be done.
I’m married to an outstandingly decent man now, and we have two daughters. And I tell them about all of this. I want them to grow up to be the kind of people who don’t judge others for doing what they have to do, or even for what they *want* to do, and that means being open with them about where I’ve been and what I’ve done.