The Crazy Mixed Up Life of Dani Wiseman

Dani is born a crack baby and is put in the foster care system, but her life takes some very unpredictable twists and turns.

The Crazy Mixed Up Life of

Dani Wiseman

 

      My mother was a crack-w***e.  My father not only father, but my grandfather as well.  Zoanne Raver was the victim of incest and I was the product of the unholy union, which is probably why my life is so f*****g mixed up.   My mother became addicted to crack when she was only twelve years old.  She got pregnant with me when she just thirteen.  I was born addicted to crack, which meant days of torturous withdrawal.  Yeah, thank God I don’t remember that.   I’m sure that was a real f*****g picnic. 

     Her father, who was also my father, didn’t want anything to do with another baby, especially one who howled and cried like demon.  Zoanne was forced to give me up for adoption regardless of what she wanted.  Since there was no one waiting in line to adopt me, I was placed in foster care as soon as I kicked the crack habit.

     The fact I was born addict to crack was not exactly advertised, so eventually I placed with a rich family.  Dana and David Delacourt were their names.  I lived with them from the time I was six months old until I was about two and half.  Honestly, I don’t remember them at all.  I am told that they lavished me with gifts and took good care of me, but then things got too difficult and they sent me back to hell hole from whence I came.  I guess they continued to try and conceive a child of their own even after my arrival.  When Dana did get pregnant it was with sextuplets.  After my foster mother was put on bed rest, my case worker, Felicity, came and got me. And that was the end of that.

     I lived in a group home from age two and half until I was nearly five.  All I can say about those years is that they are a blur of bad meals and bullies.  I don’t remember much, but I do remember being incredibly relieved when I met Judith and Bernice.  They were Lesbian lovers who were in their 50s and childless.  Have opted not to go the sextuplet route, they chose to take me in instead.  I guess they felt that, being women and all, that they should be mothers.  Too bad they weren’t really cut out for it.

     Living with Judith and Bernice was boring, which at the end of the day, really isn’t that bad.  Still, they didn’t have much patience for me.  I was quickly placed in Kindergarten, but that was about the extent of their parental involvement.  They didn’t like to watch TV and didn’t allow me to watch much of it either.  I got to watch Sesame Street and a couple other programs on PBS, but that was it.  No Nickelodeon or Disney or Cartoon Network to keep in the loop.  I didn’t have a lot of loud toys either.  All I got were a few old dolls and some books.  To be fair and gender neutral and all that s**t, they gave me some match box cars too. 

    I was seven years old and bored out of my f*****g skull living with those two old bats.  They read and slept while I explored and got into trouble.  I decided to teach myself how to bake a cake one day while they were napping and nearly burned the house down. Well, that is what they claimed.  Yeah, there was a lot of smoke coming out of the oven, but I don’t think any other part of the house caught fire.  Still, they panicked and put me in counseling.

     I was in counseling for a couple of weeks before I told my therapist to go f**k himself.  I stopped seeing Jeff after that, though Judith and Bernice didn’t know that.  They dropped me off at his office and I went inside.  Then, they’d leave to go wherever old dykes go and I’d sneak back out.  I walked around downtown and hung out with some of the older kids.  I started smoking and just generally not behaving myself.  Then I’d return in time to be picked up in front of the office as if I’d seen my counselor faithfully like a good little girl.  I couldn’t keep the charade for long though.  I lost interest in school and my grades dropped.  The so-called counselor wasn’t helping me and my foster parents were at their wit’s end.  Despite their best intentions, they weren’t able to handle me, so they too gave me back to the system.

      I was put back in a group home when I was about eight years old.  My wall grew higher and I became known as the silent tough chick.  Some of the older girls brought radios and CDs with them, so we I was able to listen to music some.  Most of it was rock and some of it was even heavy metal and gothic.   I began borrowing the make-up of some of the older girls and experimenting with looks.  We did each other’s hair and flipped though year-old copies of Seventeen.  Though most of the girls I hung out with thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, I felt more like one of them than the girls who were my age.  It wasn’t long before another year had rolled around.  I was nine, nearly ten when I left the group home.    

     A group of the teen girls decided to plot their escape and asked me to join them.  Had I known how hard life was going to be on the outside, I probably would have stayed.  But at the time, anything appeared to be better than living in the system.  I felt like no one really cared about me.  If everyone kept giving me back I must worthless then. Right? 

     One of the girls bribed on of the employee to leave a back door unlocked at night.  I think she gave him a blow job or something.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that after bed checks at 11pm, we slipped downstairs and outside in the warm summer night.  Together we ran out of the play yard and slipped through the gate into the alley behind the group home.  Giggling the whole way we ran through the dark alley and toward a car that was parked on the street not too far away.  The five of us crowded into the old jeep and the driver sped away into the night. 

      They called him Eddie.  He was the seventeen year old boyfriend of Emily Van Horn.  Emily was only fourteen, but Eddie didn’t care.  They’d met while she was on the outside at a foster home.  She’d gotten pregnant by Eddie and her foster parents put her back in the system.  Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who you talk to, Emily lost the baby.  She miscarried at two months, but by that time she was already on the inside with us.  From the day she arrived at the group home she’d been plotting her escape to get back to Eddie, more determined than ever to have his baby and live happily ever after on welfare. 

      Eddie came to a stop at a local gas station where he used a fake ID to purchase beer and cigarettes.   It was at the Quick Stop that Jayda and Mia had a huge fight and decided to go their separate ways.  Jayda went off to find her boyfriend Jax and Mia headed toward her best friend’s house.  That left Emily and Bryce and myself to continue on with Eddie. 

     We lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico, which as far as we were concerned, was the middle of nowhere.   Eddie’s grand plan was to head northwest to Salt Lake City.  I’m not sure why he chose that city over say Phoenix, but he did.  I didn’t have a say in the matter, so I rode with him and Emily the rest of the night.  Eddie stopped at a rest stop and popped open a beer.  He decided to take a nap in the passenger seat, so Emily volunteered to drive.  She was wired on Monster Energy drinks I think.  Eddie didn’t care if she drove, so Emily got behind the wheel.  She drove for several hours and then pulled off at a gas station in Flagstaff to pee.  At this point, Eddie put some gas in the car and then took over driving for the rest of the day. 

     It was an eternally long drive it seemed, but the four of us still had fun.  We jammed out to tunes on the radio and felt freer than we ever had our entire lives.  At that point in time we had no idea what lay around the corner for us.  And if you think you know, you’re probably wrong too.  I wasn’t going to end up a hooker or drug addict like my mom.  Nope, my life took a decidedly different turn.

    We’d been in Salt Lake City just a few hours when we were taken in by a bunch of Mormons.  They were being Christian and charitable it seemed, but there was something much darker lurking beneath their plain, crisp clothes.  They tried to convert us and make us part of their cultish world. 

     Eddie and Emily fit right in.  They got married and within months of their marriage, they conceived another child.  While Emily was pregnant, Eddie took a second wife named Josephina that was older.  She was just seventeen.  But soon, she too became pregnant.  Emily and Joey became sister wives and shared Eddie lovingly.

     Meanwhile, I was married off to leader of this particular parish, Warren Gearhart.  He was forty-eight years old and I had just turned thirteen when we married.  I’d just gotten my period when I was promoted from one of the brood to a sister-wife. 

     My first sexual experience was odd. I lay in bed nearly stiff as a board when Warren came in to greet me�"his new wife.  He systematically removed his clothes and then lay down beside me naked.  Slowly, he began kissing me and undressing me.  I know I should have felt happy and exited to be wanted, but all I felt was self-conscious.  Then he rolled on top of me and popped my cherry as Eddie would have said. 

     I don’t recall ever hugging or kissing Warren back in the nearly two years that we were together as husband and wife.  He came into my small room about once a week to have sex with me, but otherwise he pretty much left me alone.  He continued to treat me as a daughter in every other respect.  I answered to him first and foremost, then to the older wives.  He had five wives before me.  I was the sixth and youngest of his harem.  I shared him with Cheryl, Mary, Melissa, Jenny and Julie. 

     They never knew my real name.  When they asked me in the shelter that fateful night what my name I was told them Hannah and Hannah is what they called me the entire time I lived with them. 

     Mostly I spent my days taking care of the younger kids.  There was little time for reading or studying.  Everyone in the house was home schooled, but by the time the girls reached marriageable age, none of them bothered to finish their educations.  As far as they were concerned, they were put on this earth to have as many children as God would bless them with.  There was no thought to going to college and having a career.  Sex and childcare was pretty much all they were good for.  Even at thirteen I found this view a bit disturbing.  I didn’t know who I was, but I did know that I wanted a chance to be something more than a wife and mother. 

    Warren had fathered nearly twenty children already and he expected me to give him several more.  There was John, James, Paul, Rebecca, Nicholas, Isaac, Andrew, Michael, Nathaniel, Noah, Levi, Lydia, Lucas, Charity, Chastity, Rachel, Aaron, Ava, Virginia and newborn baby Mary.  Warren asked me what I would like to name our child and I told him Zoey Ann.  He laughed and said we’d see.  I took that to mean that he didn’t exactly approve of my choice.  But it didn’t matter because I was never able to get pregnant.

    After two year of frequent sex and I was still barren, which was cause for much alarm in our community.  Despite their mistrust of doctors and the western world, I was taken to a doctor to find out what was wrong with me.  After a thorough and invasive exam, I was told the reason I couldn’t get pregnant was because I was born without a uterus.  My tiny vaginal canal explained why sex hurt so badly as well.

     Mary brought me home from the doctor and we told Warren together about my news.  This prompted him to fly into a rage.  He screamed and yelled at me until he was all red in the face.  I’d never seen anyone so crazy.  He kept screaming at me that I must have done something bad to be cursed so by God.  Then, before I realized what was happening, I felt a fist land in my stomach.  He hit me again and again until I was on the floor in a heap, crying.  Neither Mary nor the sister-wives dared interfere.  It wasn’t until Warren had stormed off that they picked me up off the kitchen floor and took care of me.

    I had a busted lip, bloody nose, a black eye and probably a couple of cracked ribs.  It hurt to breath for weeks afterward.  I was given some Motrin and put to bed for several days to recover from my beating.  I never felt so alone or so angry in my life.  It was during this time in bed with no TV and nothing but the bible to read that I realized I needed to get the hell out of there.  I’d merely traded one prison for another. 

     With the help of Emily and her friend Aiyanna, I was able to escape the compound.  Aiyanna picked me up at the end of our road and drove me to a safe house for battered women downtown.  From there, New Mexico authorities were called to come and get me.  I was a ward that state after all and not Utah.  While I was awaiting transport, I stayed at the shelter.  There I received food and a warm place to sleep.  But the day that I was supposed to leave to go back, I ran away. 

      I left with Aiyanna’s ex-boyfriend, Shyie, that afternoon.  He was Native American like Aiyanna.  After she’d broken up with him, he decided to leave Salt Lake and return to the Reservation.  Shyie was probably my first real crush. He had gorgeous long, black hair that glistened with an almost blue sheen in the sunlight.  His brown eyes were warm and he was most muscular.  My heart beat fast every time I saw him.  So, when he suggested I go to live on the Res with him, I eagerly accepted.  He told me that I looked like I might have some Native American blood in me and thought perhaps I could do some digging into my past while I was there.

     The Res, as they referred to it, was little more than a bunch of houses in the middle of nowhere.  I was afraid at first that I might not be able to escape if I needed to, but Shyie assured me I was free to come and go if I needed to.   I wasn’t a prisoner and there were substantially less rules where I was going.  And he was right. 

     I attended High School on the Reservation with a bunch of other Native American kids.  They welcomed me even though I was lighter skinned than most of them.  I did have dark hair, but my eyes were hazel instead of brown.  Not that it mattered.  There weren’t many left who were full-blooded.  Most of the Ute tribe was anywhere from one sixteenth to one half Native American.  Many of them had come back to the Res to get in touch with their heritage and learn about where they came from. 

     I spent just over two years there and during that time I did come to discover that I was one eighth Apache.  My father was one fourth Apache and his wife, my grandmother, was one sixteenth Ute.  There was also some Mexican and English and German blood mixed in for good measure.  Although I considered myself a mutt, the Utes were willing to claim me anyway. 

    I slept with Shyie during those two years. We had a lot of fun together if nothing else.  Shyie was good to me while were together and no one seemed to care that he was five years older than me.  It wasn’t until I was about to turn eighteen that he broke my heart.  He dumped me for a woman closer to his age that he was able to marry and have kids with. 

     Feeling like I didn’t belong there any more, I traded the Old Man some things for a broken down old Chevy in his front yard.  It was big and blue and made all kinds of weird noises.  Old Man thought perhaps some spirits had possessed it.  At first I thought he was just a crazy old man, but as I drove of the Res I began to think maybe there was something to his suspicions.  That car had a mind of its own, I swear.

      I swung by a pawn shop on the edge of the nearest town and traded in much of what I had accumulated the past two years for whatever cash I could get for it.  I had jewelry that I’d made, a couple of shotguns, about five car radios and some CDs to sell, among other odds and ends.  I left with a couple of hundred dollars in my pocket and the dream of Las Vegas in my head.

     Las Vegas was about a seven hour drive from where I lived.  I arrived just as night fell and the city lit up.  I nearly crashed several times staring at the sights.  Surprisingly, hotels were cheap, so I found a place to crash for the night.  I used my fake ID to get some drinks and play the slot machines a bit before retiring to bed. 

     The next day I played black jack and then sat in on some poker games.  I’d never really played cards growing up, but Shyie showed me a thing or two before I left.  I found I was a quick learner and earned some extra cash.  Still, I knew that I’d need to find a job sooner than later.  I couldn’t rely on gambling to support me when there was a chance I could lose everything in the blink of an eye.  So, I set out about town. I walked the strip and applied for jobs at all the casinos and strip clubs I could find.  I gave them the number of the prepaid cell I’d purchased only the day before and waited.

     I was bored and wondering if my adventure had been such a good after all, when things changed for me yet again.  I sat in the theater of Harrah’s and watched as they rehearsed thinking maybe I should head back to Res when one of the stage directors yelled at me to either get up on the stage and dance or get the f**k out.  I decided to try my hand at dancing and what do you know, they hired me. 

     I trained hard in the following weeks and it wasn’t long before I was up on stage in a glittering g-string and giant headdress.  At first being nearly naked felt more than a little weird, but it wasn’t long before I got used to it.  I saw more female flesh as a dancer than I had my entire life, but I came to love it.  I loved the cattiness, competition and complete worship of the sex that came with being a dancer.  My muscles ached and I lost a great deal of weight dancing six nights a week, sometimes seven nights but it was worth it.

     Some of the women slept with each other, but mostly they worked on landing the rich boyfriend from far away.  They bragged about the rich and famous men that they fucked when they weren’t busy trying to be the star of the show.  I watched as my friends fell to drugs, burned out on dancing or decided to leave Las Vegas.   The lucky ones had men who paid their way to Los Angles, New York, Paris, London or Milan.  The somewhat lucky ones got truck rides or bus rides to Phoenix, Santa Fe, Salt Lake City, Denver or Houston even.  Very few made it as far as the east coast.

     Although my ID said my name was Lizzie Leaf and that I was already twenty-one, I didn’t turn eighteen until I’d been a showgirl for several months.  Luckily, very few people questioned my ID.  I looked like I was twenty-one or older with all my make-up on and in the new clothes I bought.  I lived fast and hard, drinking, doing drugs and having sex with lots of guys.  I knew there was no risk of getting pregnant, so I wasn’t nearly as cautious as I should have been.  And I did pay for it with a case of Chlamydia, but luckily that was easily taken care of.   

      One night I met a handsome young man named Peter Karev.  His father was from Russia, but he spoke perfect English.  He’d been raised in the USA by his mother after all and was now having fun traveling the world.  He took an immediate liking to me and in a moment of drunken lust, we were married by Elvis Presley.  Well, an Elvis impersonator anyway.  The next morning we took a limo to the airport and we flew to Paris.  I didn’t even bother calling work to tell them I quit.  I didn’t care about that world any longer.  Al that mattered was Peter and our passion. 

     Unfortunately, the passion didn’t last that long.  Although we had fun f*****g all through Europe, things changed for us when we arrived back in New York.  I was too busy setting up house and trying to learn how to be a socialite to notice that Peter was busy hooking up with his ex-girlfriends behind my back.  He probably would have been content to continue staying married to me and f*****g the other women because he could, but then his father showed up. 

     Dmetri Karev appeared one day in our expensive SoHo loft looking all dark and angry.  While he tossed back several shots of Vodka, he explained to me that he’d done some digging and discovered that my real name was not Lizzie Leaf.  He somehow managed to trace my identity back to Hannah Gearhart and then, at last down to Dani Wiseman.   He wanted me to divorce his son and spare him the humiliation of being married to a liar, a fake and a w***e. 

      “What did you expect?  A nun?  Peter knew I was a showgirl in Las Vegas when he married.  Of course I wasn’t going to be a virgin.”

      “My son was impulsive and stupid to marry someone he’d just met, which is why I decided to check you out.  You will not get a dime of his money or my money.  That much I promise you.  If you leave him now, then he will not be forced to find you dead.  I would hate to ruin this lovely loft with your blood stains.”

      I had the urge tell him to go f**k himself as well, but I didn’t.  His threat frightened me more than I cared to admit, so I turned and silently began packing my bags.  I left with some clothes and cash and little else.  I stayed at my friend Sara’s place for the night while I contemplated what my next move was.  

      I got a job driving a cab and then filed for divorce once I had a steady income.  Peter did not protest.  He signed the papers and it was made official a few months later.  I agreed to wave my rights to any and all of his fortune in exchange for my safety.  I never heard from him again and I was okay with that.  I took my GED and enrolled in a Community College preparing for a better life. 

     I met my second husband while I was driving the cab in New York City.  He slid into my backseat decked out in his Goth get-up and I fell in love at first sight.  He was the guitarist for a Gothic Rock band named Overdose.  I didn’t realize how ironic the name was until we got divorced a few years later, but I am getting ahead of myself.

     I’d just turned 21 and was legally able to drink.  So Vlad, aka Shawn, and I got drunk pretty much daily.  My first quarter of college I got As and Bs, but then after I met Shawn I ended up dropping out of college all together.  I spent my time driving them from gig to gig and playing the part of roadie and groupie all at once.  I moved from drinking to smoking pot to dropping acid to doing ecstasy.  I stayed away from coke and crack because I didn’t want to end up like my mother. The couple of years I spent with him became one big long blur of mostly feeling messed up. 

    Then one day I overdosed. 

    I awoke in a hospital bed feeling like I’d barfed up dirt.  I came to find out that they pumped my stomach and that I was being held on a forty eight hour psych evaluation.  During my time alone in bed I realized I had to break it off with Shawn. We might have loved each other, but we weren’t helping each other any.  He was God knows where doing God knows what, but he wasn’t visiting me.  I cried a good long time, releasing the pain of feeling deserted and abandoned by Shawn and the world at large.

    I asked to be hospitalized so that I could recover not only from my addictions to drinking and drugs, but my addiction to Shawn as well.  I stayed in the psych ward for over a month.  At the end of that time I arranged to move out to LA.  My friend Emily had moved out there with her kids to get away from Eddie.  It turned out Eddie was just as abusive as Warren.  It just took her longer to see the light about than it did me to see it about Warren, but at least she finally came to her senses. 

    Emily was going to school to become an ultrasound technician and she urged me to finish my schooling as well.  So, I returned to the apartment I shared with Shawn to collect my things and say goodbye.  He cried.  He actually cried when I left.  But I remained strong and kept insisting it was for the best.  I called the cab company I worked for and had one of my friends drive me to the airport. 

     I arrived in LA ready to start over yet again.  How many times did that make?  I wasn’t sure.  It was too many times if you ask me, but what choice did I have?  I quickly settled into a life that was nothing like anything else I’d experienced.  I stayed clean and sober and saw a therapist.  I remained single and returned to college.  It was probably that happiest and most stable period of my life.

     So why was I still miserable?

     My therapist suggested I had unresolved issues from my crazy childhood. So, I began the long process of getting in contact with my birth mother for some sort of relationship or closure.  I wasn’t sure which I wanted.  After several months of digging and researching on the internet, I found Zoanne Raver Clarke.  She still lived in Albuquerque and had gotten married.  I sent her an email and waited to see what she had to say for herself.

     A few days later I got an email back.  She was happy to hear from me and sorry that she had to give me up.  She had wanted to keep me despite the fact I was a constant reminder that her father had repeatedly raped her.  Thankfully, our father had gone to prison for what he’d done to her.  He’d been released just a few years ago, but his health was not so good.  He’d passed away around the same time I’d overdosed.  In any case, Zoanne felt free at last and she married her long time boyfriend Kevin Clarke.  They had two kids together. I had a brother named Jamie who was now ten and a sister named Erin who was eight.  I was eager to meet my mother, brother and sister, so we set up a time for me to fly back to New Mexico.

      It was a tearful reunion at the airport.  Once back at her tiny house, I realized that she and I weren’t so different.  We’d both been abused and we’d both fought for a better life for ourselves.  Even though I sometimes hated her for giving me up, I knew it was for the best.  With me to take care of she might not have finished school or gotten clean.  Truthfully I felt lucky for having the freedom to find out who I was without feeling stuck in one place.  I realized that I’d grown up and matured much faster than she had in many ways.  But that was all in the past and we’d found each other at last.

     It was a bit awkward to suddenly have a family to call my own, but we agreed to keep working on it. I flew back to LA happy to have my new life connected to my old one. I was tired of running from who I was, from that baby who was born addicted to crack.  Somewhere along the way I realized that I didn’t have to stay her.  I had a choice of who I was and what my life looked like. 

     Now, at age 35, I’ve found myself the unlikely subject of a documentary.  A student of Journalism and Sociology wanted to know more about my time with cult in Utah.  As she interviewed me she found herself fascinated by my crazy, mixed up life.  I had assumed that many people lived as I had, but I was wrong. 

    Loraine Lopez told me that she grew up in a middle class neighborhood to two Catholic parents whose lives were, for the most part, drama free.  There were no drugs or unhealthy relationships in her past.  She couldn’t believe I was brave enough to face the world alone.  She hated going anywhere without her group of friends or her boyfriend. 

    Although I was honored to be on film for ten minutes talking about my time in Utah, I was even more flattered to be the sole subject of her next film.  I’ve told bits and pieces of my story to friends over the years, but no one has heard the whole story until now.  Loraine wanted me to write down what happened so she could research it and prepare the footage to go along with my interview and so that is what I did.