I met Rachel in 2016, a time in which I really needed a friend. My third child had been born a few months prior, I was in the thick of trying to get my forthcoming restaurant open, I was single, again, and in general- absolutely heartbroken.

****It may come off as odd to some of you that I’ve changed the names. Many of you reading this will know exactly who I’m talking about, and know that her name is not in fact Rachel. I’m only doing this because, on the off chance this is read or shared by people who DON’T know her, I’m intentionally making it my responsibility to keep it that way. Clearly, this is nothing I ever wanted to write.****

Regardless of either of these situations, the truth aside- it’s my fault, and it’s about me.

For the purposes of our story, we’ll fast forward roughly 3 years from the day I met her. The date is January 26th, 2019. We’re drunk. We’re playing UNO.

Rachel had recently moved back home to Louisville, Kentucky via Santa Cruz, California- and Los Angeles before that. She had been a rising adult film star- specializing in hardcore gangbang kink fetish porn, she had been nominated for an AVN before, seemingly abruptly, giving up her lucrative (if maybe stagnant) career to run a California pot farm with her then boyfriend, David. The details of the end of that relationship are… really gross, and not my place to tell. Suffice it to say- she needed to get the fuck out of there. And she did- but not before intentionally wrecking her already beat up station wagon into a pole in an attempt to die.

At this point in the story, I’m in the process of opening a second location for my restaurant- a second location that was, ultimately, as ill fated as my upcoming marriage.

Rachel arrived at my new restaurant in her beat up station wagon, and she looked…. different. Not like the Rachel I remembered. She’d gained some weight, which suited her- she’d given up cocaine, which was all to the better.

See, we were friends, and I really, really knew her. Or… I thought I did. We spoke often. I heard about her trauma, her pain, her fears, her happiness, her wins and losses and everything in between. She’d live her life on the road, bouncing between whatever cities she saw fit. She slept in the back of her station wagon, or her van. She made porn by day, whether more tame for major production companies, or Murder-Rape porn for private consumption in China, or Russia, or wherever. She escorted by night, whether in Las Vegas or Los Angeles. Financially, she did well. She always said she loved what she did, was proud of what she did- that her one regret was she’d put all the profits up her nose.

For what it’s worth- I am also proud of what she did, so long as she is. Sex work is real work. It takes confidence and skill, it takes a level of openness most of us do not, and will never, have. To be a sex worker is to knowingly put yourself in potential danger, while at your most vulnerable, and PERFORM. That Rachel was a porn star was a positive attribute in my eyes, not a red flag or a cause for concern- and that remains true to this day. Though it ended about as poorly as it could have, dating another sex worker would not give me pause going forward, the same way dating another accountant wouldn’t.

Rachel would come home for a few days- the LA girl who made it big in porn, back in her home town, and she’d just…. fuck her way across the city. She’d show up to the party, wherever it was (Taproom), and take her pick. She was tall, she was stunning, she was nasty, and she wanted you all to *know it*. To be clear- that doesn’t bother me.

I’m not slut shaming her, nor should you. Women have every right to enjoy consensual, safe sex with as many partners as they choose. I only bring this up for the larger context of the story.

This time, though? It was different. She was different- or, I thought she was.

She wanted to settle, or so she said. Really, she was running.

Running from an abusive relationship. Running from her addictions. Running from a life she once loved and now found toxic. Running from herself, probably- but the thing is, no matter where you go, you take yourself with you. And there began our problems.

I’ll spare you most of the love story, but I’d be remiss not to bring it up- we fell HARD, and FAST. I’d been semi-joking for years that we should just meet in Vegas and tie the knot- but, drunk at my house, surrounded by friends, playing UNO, I said it again, and she agreed. That was all I needed to hear- plane tickets were booked in 6 minutes. We woke up the next day and decided not only were we going through with it, but it was the best decision we’d ever made. We went and picked out her wedding dress. I called a friend who was a silversmith, she made a relatively inexpensive, but pretty custom ring for her that very day. No diamonds allowed, which was fine- she had initially asked me to get her ring out of a quarter machine at a bowling alley. This seemed a fair compromise.

Those 3 days in Vegas were some of the best days of my life. We partied hard, we won thousands of dollars, we ate at the nicest restaurants in the city, and, oh, yeah, we got married, too. She looked absolutely stunning that night. She was practically floating down Fremont- had a smile for everyone, a hug for anyone.

Coming home, everything was hectic. There was much to do. We got her moved in- she came with a station wagon full of things and $4,000 to her name, but I was in no rush for her to rush. I was happy to watch her heal, settle, and adjust. I did well enough to keep the bills paid, she was fresh off a whole bunch of trauma, recently drug free- these things take time, and, as far as I was concerned, we had our whole lives ahead of us.

I quickly discovered I had made a huge mistake.

I had been so proud of her for turning over a new leaf, for getting off drugs, and I…. just missed the signs. Her drug of choice wasn’t cocaine, it wasn’t even alcohol. Her drug was validation. And validation is an absolute motherfucker.

***CONTENT WARNING: sexual abuse.***

**Writers Note: I’ll never share stories that aren’t mine to share- unless they’ve already been shared publicly.**

As a child, Rachel was abandoned by her father. She was sexually abused by a family member, who also abandoned her. Through therapy, she learned she had deep, deep abandonment issues, and was diagnosed with PTSD and Borderline Personality Disorder.

I’m no stranger to BPD. I’d dated a woman with Borderline before, and, while it is manageable, it is also wildly difficult to cope with loving someone who has it. I probably didn’t handle it well, either time. As an aside, I am in therapy to learn how to deal. I tend to gravitate toward women with trauma, women who are abusive, women who only know how to show love in the form of abuse- because it’s, frankly, all they ever knew. This probably has to do with my own childhood trauma. Through a few therapy sessions I’ve discovered I’m likely doing something called “Trauma Bonding”, where-in I am associating emotional abuse with love, and subconsciously seeking romantic partners who will provide me that. Who knows if that’s what’s happening- I have a lot of work to do, and I’m keeping an open mind.

Anyway, I discovered the mistake I’d made within a few months. There were good times, certainly- they kept me coming back. But, mostly, shit was bad.

The first fight we got in to was at 6am. Rachel woke me up to argue about… God, I don’t even remember what, at this point. I walked outside, as I tend to do during confrontation. My first instinct is to get away. I heard the door slam and lock… I’d been locked out. Okay, fine…. but then I heard the silverware drawer hit the ground. I looked through the window and heard an absolutely gut wrenching shriek, as I saw Rachel sprinting toward the stairs, with a knife.

And that was the first time I had Rachel hospitalized.

I had managed to climb through a window, break the bathroom door open, knock the knife out of her hand, kick it down the steps, and hold the door closed until she promised not to keep hurting herself.

She spent the weekend in Our Lady of Peace, and I was absolutely gutted. I cried, a lot. My wife had tried to fucking kill herself. She was stuck in a mental hospital, and I had put her there. I truly believe that was the first time I ever felt real, actual empathy for anyone. Or, it was the most intense I had ever felt it. I hurt for her, legitimately. I felt like I was in there with her. I knew in the back of my mind that it was the right place for her to be, but I felt… so fucking guilty. Like I could have just listened instead of walking away. I could have calmed her down. I could have put everything to the side, kept her home, kept an eye on her.

Her family was mostly apathetic, and, in hindsight, I guess I get why. This wasn’t a one off occurrence. Her sister checked in on me, to see how I was feeling, but wasn’t much help.

“Griffin, I’m just so exhausted with this. I don’t know how to help her. I have my own things going on. I can’t be on call to save her life all the time anymore”.

So this was my new burden. But at the time, I really thought everything would get better. She got out and was… eerily calm. She was medicated. I’d hidden the knives, the razors, everything sharp. I’d hidden anything I thought she could hang herself with. Eventually, as things started to seem okay, I started bringing those things back in to the house. She seemed to think my concern was silly, but all I could think, every day was… my God, my daughter and I are gonna come home to find her stepmom dead today.

That fear was almost realized.

I was stressed. Extremely stressed. My new restaurant wasn’t going well. We weren’t busy. We were hemorrhaging money- about $10,000 a month we were losing, and I assure you, I live comfortably, but not nearly that comfortably. This put a serious strain on our relationship. I wanted to be left alone a lot. Through many later conversations, both with Rachel and my therapist, I can reasonably assume Rachel’s response to this was to feel I was abandoning her. She’d push back. She’d cling. She’d pick fights, just anything to get me to show SOMETHING. To show I cared, or show I was mad, or show I was thinking about her at all. The more she did that, the more I wanted to be left alone. The more I wanted to be left alone, the more she did that.

It was a truly toxic cycle, and I’m really not proud of the way I handled it. I was aloof. I was probably self medicating, drinking too much, wallowing in my own misery at home. She’d go out until the wee hours of the morning, come home drunk, pick another fight. This was happening 6 days a week, and I couldn’t take it.

I asked for a divorce.

She pushed back. She could change. She could give me the space I needed. She would do better.

I wasn’t hearing it.

That night, I’m at work, closing up for the night, and my phone starts going absolutely ballistic in my pocket.

“Is Rachel Okay??”

“text me im freaking out”

“Griffin call me now, whats happening”

I received over 200 variations of that text in a 4 minute span. Then the final text I remember before running out of there and heading home-

“Check Rachel’s facebook”

I checked, and there it was. A suicide note.

I don’t even remember what it said, really. Something to the effect of “losing the only thing I ever loved, I’m finally going to be at peace”.

I called police, they beat me home by about 3 minutes. I let them in. They found her in the bath tub. She was alive, but it wasn’t good. She was rambling about her step dad. Slurring her words. She’d ingested upward of 70 prescription pain pills, and she was going to die.

EMS arrived, strapped her to a stretcher, and took her out of there. They handed me her phone, and I stood there, hands on my knees in the front yard, in full blown tears, thinking my wife was dead. My fears were momentarily assuaged as they rolled her out of the house and in to the back of the ambulance.

She looked me dead in my eyes and said, “I fucking hate you”.

“You’re fucked now, motherfucker”

The next few months carried on something like this, but worse. She was still cutting, still threatening to jump off bridges or whatever other way she was fantasizing about dying, but much of her anger and resentment had turned toward me.

Rachel would lie a lot. Lie about where she was, what she was doing, who she was with. They would be the most obvious lies, but she would swear up and down she was being truthful, to the point that she would call me controlling and manipulative for not believing her. She’d carry on with the same dumb lies for weeks, lies that were for literally no reason, as I wouldn’t have cared about what she was *actually* doing if she had just been honest in the first place. But she just… couldn’t help herself, and would then run the gambit of victimhood when what she was saying was obviously not true. Until she was completely caught. Then she’d apologize, say she’d do better, blame her childhood trauma or mental health- rinse, repeat. She’d make a public show of her anger toward me. I had stopped inviting friends over because, every time I did, she would throw something at me. Like, literally. She’d pick up a vase and wing it at my head, she’d hit me with her phone or a pillow or whatever was closest to her. When nobody was home, it was almost worse. She’d scream in my face, repeatedly, refusing to let me walk away or be alone. She’d unplug the internet modem, turn off the TVs, steal my phone and my car keys, and refuse to let me have any of my things until I had a conversation with her that I flat out DID NOT WANT TO HAVE. I’d try to walk away, and she’d use her body as a barricade to keep me from leaving and getting space. She’d clinch her fists at me, tell me I was a piece of shit, ask me if I wanted her to go be with another man “because that’s what’s about to happen”. I came home one night and had to fist fight her cousin in my own house, for the perceived threat of BEING THERE. One night, she’d been hiding that she was drinking again (which she’d promised to quit doing after however many tens of times she blamed her abusive nature on alcohol) and got so mad at me for playing a song she didn’t like that she slammed on the brakes, putting my face into the windshield. When I grabbed my keys and walked home, she called to have my car towed. With my credit card. She was doing INCREDIBLY sketchy things, like staying out until 6am, coming home sniffing and stumbling, reeking of booze and sex. If I didn’t want to have sex or be touched, she’d accuse me of being abusive by “withholding affection”. When I’d press her about that, and ask if she felt she was owed sex whenever she wanted it no matter how I felt at the time, she’d say “yes, we are married”. She’d get so drunk and aggressive she’d scream until my daughter woke up, who would then ask “why is Rachel yelling at you daddy”, and I had to go upstairs and explain that “sometimes people get mad but she doesnt mean it”, which was absolutely not true- but what do you tell a three year old?

I wanted to leave. I knew this was uncool. My friends had already begged me to leave. It got to the point where they wouldn’t even listen to me anymore.

“Look, man. We know that bitch is crazy. We told you to leave. You aren’t leaving. Nothing else we can do for you”.

I knew they were right. I knew I should go. Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t get better. I just knew when I finally did… she was going to fucking die. She had always told me if I ever left her she would ruin me, but, honestly, that was not in the forefront of my concerns. I really just… couldn’t shoulder the weight of potentially being the reason somebody fucking killed themselves.

I’ve struggled with my mental health for all of my adult life. I’ve tried to kill myself before. I’ve thought about it more times than I even care to admit, but the prevailing theme in my head was this…. I got better. I still get depressed. I still get angry. I still do wildly impulsive things- I self sabotage, I have manic times and elevated moods, but I’m…. better. Most days, I feel *good*.

I just thought…. if I can get better? So can she.

She didn’t. It got worse, and I was handling it worse. It got to the point where I shoved her on the ground. I’m not proud of that. If I could go back, maybe I’d do things different, but in that moment, I felt so trapped, so powerless- it was all I knew to do.

You’ve read the routine. I was trying to walk away. She was barricading me in- sprinting from door to door, blocking me in with her body, screaming in my face, calling me all types of pieces of shit. I was pleading with her… “Rachel, please just get out of my way. I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to do this”. She clinched her fist and I reacted. I pushed her. Hard. Not so hard that she fell in to anything, or was hurt- but hard enough to get out that door.

“YOU JUST PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS ON ME”

Well…. yeah. You know what? I did. Don’t ever try to hold me prisoner in my home. Don’t ever think your need to talk supersedes my need to walk away.

Eventually, I had had enough. I couldn’t tell you exactly what happened, but I was finally, completely done. It had all caught up, I had a moment of clarity, and I was done. I couldn’t take the abuse, I couldn’t take the gaslighting, I couldn’t put my kids in this situation anymore.

She was flying to California to visit, a trip I absolutely was not going on, so I broke the news to her right before she left. I was done. I wanted a divorce. I was not changing my mind. If you kill yourself over it, fine, I hope you don’t but I can not keep doing this.

She did… whatever she did in California. I don’t know, and at this point I frankly don’t care. I’m sure it’s all well documented on her Facebook, so if you know her, feel free to find out, and never tell me about it. I heard tales about people getting their red wings. I heard lots of stories that I really have no interest in knowing the validity of.

All I know is, she texted me the morning of her return trip. She had missed her flight.

“Okay. Why are you telling me this?”

Because she still loved me, apparently. She wanted to work things out.

I told her we couldn’t. I told her she was abusive, a gaslighter, a manipulator, and that until she could admit to those things, we actually couldn’t even have a conversation. She did finally admit to it, which, selfishly, was good for me. But there was a caveat. I needed to admit all the ways I’d been horrible to her.

I wasn’t ready to reflect, and I didn’t care to continue our relationship, so I blocked her number. For the final time.

And THAT, was all BACKSTORY.

Here we sit, me, writing this, Future You, reading it. Why? I didn’t want to share this stuff. I’m fucking embarrassed. I’m embarrassed I ever put myself in this situation. I’m embarrassed that I apparently had such an irrepressible urge to give someone love that I impulse married a person who would put me and my family at risk. I’m embarrassed I ever took up for her, I’m embarrassed I didn’t leave sooner.

But, the accusations started flying, and here we are.

They were funny, at first. I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humor, especially about myself. I try not to take myself too serious. I’m harder on myself than most people. So when she led with “Griffin Paulin is a small dick, two pump chump, leave his shit in the toilet ass boy”- I laughed, too, y’all. Was that an extremely basic thing to say? Sure, it was basic, and typical, but it was funny.

Moreover, I understood what was happening. Her greatest fear had been realized. She had been abandoned. There was a gaping hole in her, and the only thing that was going to fill it was her drug of choice. She *needed* that validation, she CRAVED it, and she was going to get it, one way or another. So what if she got a few jokes off at my expense? I’ll shake my head and keep it moving.

It started getting out of hand. She was spiraling emotionally, and started publicly accusing me of being abusive.

….. wait a minute. What?! That’s…. literally why I left you, though…. because you’re abusive…. you even admitted to it… wait. WHAT?!

I couldn’t stop myself anymore. I had to speak up. I made a quick statement. I made it clear where I stood, didn’t provide much detail. I wasn’t ready to talk about any of it. Fuck, I was still processing it. Most people could tell what was happening. I got lots of support. She had made about 72 separate posts about me in the span of 18 hours, each one getting more and more outlandish, the number of engagements on each dwindling. My friends, who have been there for and know all of this, were messaging me:

“She’s losing support”

“She overplayed her hand”

“She’s contradicting herself, she’s invalidating herself, I know you’re burning to speak up but for the love of God DON’T YOU SAY A WORD”

I was fuming. I was furious. She was accusing me of some truly wild shit, like throwing her cat out a window, holding her belongings hostage. I was being fucking defamed, she had been collecting videos of me being angry over… objectively maddening things… for months and she was posting them all over the internet. I was embarrassed. Imagine your most toxic moments in a relationship, suddenly on display for the entire internet to see.

It was everything I could do not to speak up. I was debating saying something, I really was. I was close to ignoring the advice I was receiving and doing so. Then, she made my decision for me.

“Griffin Paulin, Owner of (my restaurant), is a RAPIST”

Wait…. what the FUCK.

She had receipts.

About 20 minutes later, an email comes through my phone. It’s from Rachel-

“You’re fucked now, motherfucker”

And here’s where I have to really do some reflection. Because…. not everything they said in the texts she posted was wrong. Like, one of them, was SERIOUSLY ROOTED IN TRUTH. I’ve really never thought I had consent issues. But maybe I do?

I don’t know a better way to do this, so I’m just gonna take a minute to talk about these 2 allegations individually, and address each one. I will not be naming either of these women, though I know who both of them are, and have known about both of these things for months, and even YEARS- as has Rachel.

Allegation 1:

A woman and I got very drunk, went back to my house with her, and, though she didn’t say no, she didn’t really want to have sex, but we did anyway. She asked me to wear a condom, I told her to “shut up”, we had sex, she regretted it.

I gotta be honest…. that one is mostly true. The condom thing, I don’t remember. Most of it, I actually don’t remember. I reckon it could be true- I have no memory or evidence to deny it. It doesn’t *sound* like me, or at least it doesn’t sound like who I’d like to *think* I am. I was absolutely shit faced. So to you, who I will refer to as Marie-

You have every right to tell your story. I’m not mad at you for telling Rachel your truth. I absolutely apologize to you. If I made you uncomfortable, if I took advantage of you, if I made you feel helpless in any way, it was absolutely not my intention.

I do want you to know, when I woke up naked in bed with you and Cindy, I had absolutely no recollection. I have some now, but it is the vaguest of vague. I regret it, too. I regretted it the minute you told me what happened, even before i said “wow, that was probably awful”, and you agreed. I have regretted it every time we’ve seen each other since, not just because you didn’t want to have sex with me, but because I didn’t want to have sex with you, either. I do recognize that I, ultimately, put you in a bad spot, and I’m sorry. I’ve tried to rectify it in small ways, but I’m sure it hasn’t been enough. I put a stop to you and a friend coming back to my house to fuck in the spare room. Months ago, when it first came to my attention that you felt this way, I tried to calm Rachel down. She wanted to blast you on the internet. You were all kinds of canceled, problematic pieces of shit to her. I asked her to stand down. You don’t deserve to be shamed for telling your truth, and you never will be- at least, not by me. Again, I am sorry.

Allegation 2-

I got very drunk with a woman, walked her back to her apartment, pushed her against a wall and kissed her. She slapped me in the face, ran inside and locked the door. I left and nothing more happened.

We’ll call this woman Carrie.

Carrie…. I’m sorry if my actions made you uncomfortable, but I would appreciate it if we could move out of the realm of fiction.

Carrie sent me nude photos of herself for weeks. Carrie spent an entire evening sitting on my lap, grabbing me sexually, and feeding me tequila shots. Carrie asked me to walk her back to her apartment, and I did. I would like to point out- none of these things are equivalent to consent. But, I then hugged Carrie goodbye, and she kissed me. She then got embarrassed, ran inside, and proceeded to send me nudes as I walked home. And continued to send me nudes, and ask to hang out, for weeks.

It wasn’t until your boyfriend found the photos, Carrie, that you spun this story to make it seem like it was something it wasn’t.

I’m sorry I put you in a position to cheat. It wasn’t cool of me, it wasn’t right, and, for what it’s worth, if you’re reading this, Trevor, I’m sorry I put you in that position as well. I’m sorry I lied to you when you texted me- Carrie was my friend, and she asked me to.

Regardless of either of these situations, the truth aside- it’s my fault, and it’s about me.

It’s about me because people with a perfect relationship with consent aren’t painted the way Rachel is painting me. Though neither of these women are alleging rape, what they alleged is… fucking bad. Did I appreciate Rachel taking these anecdotes, and using them to compare me to one of the most heinous predators this city has seen in recent memory? No, I didn’t. Did I consider a lawsuit? Of course I did. For like… 2 seconds.

But, here’s the thing. Silencing people will never do anybody any good. Not them, not Rachel, and not me. Flat out, I clearly could have, and should have, done better, in at least one of these situations. Clearly I had a party life problem, and that ran over to a point it should have never reached. I don’t believe myself to be predatory. I know I’m not a fucking rapist. I would never willingly or intentionally put anyone in a situation like that. Taking advantage of someone sexually is the worst crime a person can commit. I may be a lot of things. I refuse to believe I am that. But that said- I need to be better. I need to do better. Women have it hard enough in this world.

I read a study that stated less than 6% of sexual assault allegations are unfounded or untrue. I believe that.

I also believe in my character, and while it’s not always sterling, I don’t believe I have that sort of violent, disgusting tendency, nor can I imagine ever having it.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you to believe me, reader. A huge part of me DOES want you to believe me. Yet, I’m conflicted. Because I believe women. I believe victims. And that won’t ever change. So when I look at this objectively- do I believe myself? Or do I believe women? In one of these situations, it absolutely can’t be both.

I’m not asking you, the reader, to believe me. I won’t try to make your mind up for you. I’m only giving my side of the story, and making a promise that I will never again put myself in position to be part of the problem. I won’t make jokes, because it’s not fucking funny. I won’t make light, because it’s fucking heavy. I’m not the Incel Kings “gotcha” moment, and I swear to God y’all better not move me there.

And if the cost of you, the reader, believing women is that you don’t believe me?

I’m gonna eat that.

Moving Forward

Out of the worst shit, sometimes you find clarity. I’m not attempting to portray myself as a victim, or Rachel as evil. Rachel is sick. I truly believe she can’t help herself.

I know she’s trying to do porn again, and I hope that’s… okay for her. I hope it’s healthy for her. Being privy to the reasons she quit in the first place, I truly hope she’s in a good place, or that she finds herself in one. I hope she makes an absolute killing, smiles every day, and doesn’t put the spoils up her nose.

That’s probably where my good feelings for her end. She committed a number of federal felonies on her way out the door, racking up my business checking account with amazon purchases to the tune of just under $2,300. I’ve notified the proper authorities in every jurisdiction, filed the necessary reports. Whether they do anything about that or not is between them and my attorney at this point. It’s out of my hands.

For everybody who reached out to check on me- shit meant more than you could ever guess. I’m fine, and I will be fine. I’d like to get an actual divorce soon, so hopefully that situation falls in to place. I’d like if my lovely soon to be ex wife hadn’t left me with Chlamydia on her way out the door. I’d like if I wasn’t double checking the doors and windows every time I heard a car door shut, just waiting for her to try to break in at 1am again. I’d like if I could move past this, and on to better things. I’m seeing somebody, but cautiously- I have much to work on for myself. I’m clearly not okay, or I wouldn’t keep finding myself in these situations. I’d like my daughter to forget Rachel exists, I’d like to think she didn’t succeed in imparting even a shred of her trauma to my daughter.

But, on the very likely chance I don’t get all, or any, of that?

Well. I brought it on myself. At least I can leave you, and myself, with a cautionary tale:

You can not control others. You can not control anything but yourself. Don’t lose that control, because it’s all you have. When you see danger- run. When somebody shows you who they are- believe them.

And- when in Vegas. Do NOT get married.