On Christmas Eve in 2012, amidst the cozy atmosphere of an Airbnb in the Columbia River Gorge, I was baking chocolate chip cookies with my boyfriend of almost five years when a strong inner voice called me from the kitchen.
The voice simply said, “Go to the bedroom.”
I removed my apron and followed the instruction. In the bedroom, I saw my boyfriend with his back to me, the sleeve of his flannel shirt rolled up to his forearm. In his hand, he held a needle, the tip ready to pierce his skin.
Boyfriend with needle, symbolizing addiction and relapse.
Boyfriend preparing to inject drugs, highlighting the relapse and the author’s intervention.
“What the fuck,” I exclaimed, my voice breaking the silence just before he could inject. I knew exactly what he was doing. This wasn’t the first, second, or even third time I had witnessed his relapses. The needle was filled with heroin, possibly mixed with stimulants.
He quickly hid the needle in his jeans pocket, as if I hadn’t already seen it. He stood there silently, giving me his best guilty look.
For years, I had been caught in a painful cycle dictated by Cookies’ periods of sobriety and relapse. Both single parents, we shared dreams of marriage and a blended family with my 19-year-old son and his 9-year-old son. When sober, he was passionate about literature, film, music, and nature. He was charming and romantic, the kind of man who left love notes in my laptop bag for me to find at work. He celebrated my achievements and remembered my best friend’s birthday.
But these moments were always overshadowed by drama, gaslighting, and betrayals. Those track marks were just bug bites. The long bathroom breaks were due to stomach issues. His tiredness was just allergies, and I was being paranoid. Even when all the signs pointed to his drug use, I kept trying to convince myself otherwise.
I navigated rehab centers, dragged us to couples therapy, and grounded myself in 12-step support groups. I learned the steps for both of us, missing the crucial point that I was supposed to work my program, not his. All the while, I braced myself for the inevitable relapse that the experienced women in those groups warned wasn’t a matter of if but when.
But in that Airbnb bedroom, instead of yelling and scolding, I remained calm and, for the first time in a long time, listened to that inner voice.
“You are not ruining my vacation,” I stated, setting a boundary I could maintain. I gave Cookies two choices: flush the drugs and detox, or be dropped off in a small town a few miles away at 11 p.m. on a holiday weekend.
He chose to stay and endure withdrawal pains for the next few days, moving between the bedroom and bathroom while I watched Netflix, walked the dog, and texted my support network. I lay beside him at night, barely touching, but wanting a sense of normalcy.
However, I wasn’t ready to break up or completely cut contact. My boyfriend using heroin on vacation apparently wasn’t my breaking point. Telling him he had to move out was the most I could do. I believed loving him would give him a reason to live, but it was slowly destroying me.
Over the next three months, he moved between sober living facilities and an apartment funded by his parents, fully relapsing into constant drug use once he was alone. I held my ground, not letting him into my home, but still answering his calls. Then, I received the automated 1-800 call informing me that Cookies was in jail again. He had been arrested for drug possession before, but this time was different. This time, he had robbed a coffee stand and assaulted the owner.
I shifted into my usual caregiver mode, calling the sheriff’s office and communicating with his public defender. For a year, I faithfully visited him at the county jail as often as allowed. Between visits and long work hours, I became an unpaid therapist to his anxious mother, sympathized with his ex-wife, and acted as his personal banker, depositing hundreds of dollars into his commissary account for snacks, envelopes, stamps, and phone calls (which were outrageously priced at $7.50 for 30 minutes).
When he was sentenced to eight years, with no parole, it was a harsh awakening. I couldn’t imagine waiting eight years for his release. I had never envisioned myself as a prison girlfriend, yet there I was, facing a life script change in a role I never auditioned for.
This scenario felt uncomfortably familiar, a recurring theme in my life where I played a supporting role in the lives of creative, charismatic, but troubled men. Until that inner voice spoke up, I had been content living in the shadows of men’s dreams, addictions, and narratives. Something had to change.
“Get a life, or at least a hobby,” a new friend from a support group suggested jokingly. The idea seemed absurd. Between 60-hour work weeks, maintaining a semblance of normalcy with my soon-to-be independent 19-year-old son, and four-hour round trips to visit Cookies in jail, when would I find the time?
But her sarcastic suggestion lingered, so I made a list of things I wanted to try: writing, cooking, paddle boarding—and Burlesque Dancing. The last one was a long shot; a secret desire from my younger years, before knee injuries and a sedentary office job. Yet, six months into Cookies’ sentence, I attended my first class at the All that Glitters School of Burlesque, held in a rundown heavy metal bar.
The class included a couple of strippers wanting to refine their acts, some former theater kids, a medical assistant in her mid-20s, a paralegal nearing 40, and me. Our teacher, who resembled a real-life Jessica Rabbit, radiated an infectious and transformative joy. Our first task was simple yet deeply symbolic: Choose your burlesque name.
“A name tells a story,” Jessica explained. I didn’t know what story I wanted to tell. But my life felt like a chaotic tornado, so I chose “Twirling Tex” as my stage name.
In my burlesque training, I discovered the art of illusion and performance. Using clever makeup techniques, strategically placed spandex, Velcro, and pasties with tassels, I created an alluring stage persona while maintaining an air of mystery. This newfound creative outlet was transformative. Burlesque dancing became more than just a hobby; it was a path to self-discovery and empowerment.
Although I wasn’t a drinker, I found refuge in Portland’s alternative bar scene and the accepting community of performers and fans. I followed Jessica and her group like a devoted follower, joining barbecues, nightclubs, and drag shows. I got to know them offstage and learned many shared similar past traumas, some including addiction. This sense of community was incredibly healing and supportive.
I reduced my visits to Mr. Cookies to bi-weekly. He increased his calls, postcards, and letters, keeping me engaged with suggestive phone conversations and dramatic prison stories. But every interaction was tinged with requests for money for his account, books, magazines, letters—always needing more of me. I began to realize this dynamic had always defined our relationship, and I had played a part in creating it.
In subsequent classes, I learned to connect with my inner rhythm and build a stronger connection with my body. My hips swaying and shoulders shimmying, I confidently stepped to the front of the stage—a sultry showgirl in motion. These choreographic building blocks led to an exhilarating first performance for friends and family. The applause and positive feedback were incredibly validating.
I enrolled in an intermediate class to refine my act and learn to use feather boas and fans. Attending workshops in go-go dancing, jazz basics, and sensual yoga, I rediscovered how to move in my body. I embraced creating playful acts, like one inspired by the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, where I wore a red, white, and blue outfit with white majorette boots and pompoms. I performed at bars and clubs and volunteered as a “kitten,” a stagehand, assisting other performers. Burlesque dancing was unlocking a part of me I had long suppressed.
On business trips, I made time to see burlesque shows in New York, Seattle, New Orleans, and Paris. I even took a tango class in Buenos Aires and performed in a group act at the Burlesque Hall of Fame. Each experience broadened my understanding and appreciation of the art form.
Stepping into the spotlight on stage, I discovered a powerful feminine energy I had suppressed for years. Each performance became a journey of self-discovery. The audience’s applause nurtured a growing sense of self-worth, freeing me from the shadows of past relationships and grounding me in the woman I was becoming. Burlesque was teaching me to value myself, independent of anyone else’s approval.
I stopped visiting Cookies, and unopened letters piled up in a shoebox under my desk. However, the automated 1-800 calls persisted, and postcards with “call me back” in large letters appeared in my mailbox. I ignored them, slowly detaching myself from familiar patterns of codependency.
As I immersed myself in the vibrant world of burlesque performers, I again risked over-involvement and emotional entanglement, getting caught up in others’ issues. But over time, I recognized these patterns sooner, before they caused significant harm. I began to understand that healing isn’t about permanently breaking these cycles, but acknowledging them, surrendering, and confronting my fears. Burlesque had given me the strength and self-awareness to navigate these challenges.
Author with her dog, Ripley, representing companionship and healing.
The author with her dog Ripley, symbolizing companionship and moving forward in life.
I never explained to Cookies why I stopped answering his calls, fearing any contact would shatter the protective bubble I had created. Eight years later, when he was released from prison, the calls—and now texts—started again. I blocked his number, moved to a new house, and informed his parole officer of my lack of interest in further contact. There was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been said.
Today, the intuitive voice that guided me on that Christmas Eve is clear and strong, and my old patterns no longer control me. Although I eventually stopped performing burlesque, it played a crucial role in my transformation from a supporting character in someone else’s story to the protagonist of my own.
Today, I no longer hide in anyone’s shadow, standing confidently in my own spotlight, thanks to the empowering journey I began with burlesque dancing.
By Brenda Lynch
