The Most Dangerous Lesson I Ever Learned

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A troubled friend, a risky choice, and a terrifying ordeal

I’ve been digging into the past recently — more specifically, my past — (which is probably contributing to the restless weirdness I’m feeling). I dug up information I had for some of the workshops I’ve led and content that was on my previous websites. A lot of it was offering some sort of guidance based on my professional background and also my lived experience — which has been considerable in terms of personal challenges and a long healing journey.

I found some old reviews and feedback on my work and sessions, and noticed several people used the word, “mentor.” I never really thought of myself that way. To me, that’s a very professional sort of title, and me? I’m just stumbling through life, making a heck of a mess of it — a lot — and doing my best to clean it up and do better. I don’t know what I’m doing any more than anyone else! Me? A mentor?

But when I thought about some of my own experiences being on the receiving end of certain lessons, I had to admit that mentors don’t always come in the form of polished experts or “teachers”. Far from it.

Sometimes, we learn the most from people whose lives are complete trainwrecks — messy, chaotic, or even downright dangerous. And sometimes, those unexpected mentors can leave the deepest impressions — even if it takes years to get the fullness of the lessons they taught us.

When I was 14, I met a girl named Bobbi Jo. She was 13 and was “the new kid at school.” She was deeply troubled in every sense of the word — constantly seeking attention, talking about suicide in a flippant way (purely for sympathy, never with serious intent to even fake an attempt) and being called to the principal’s office for heaven only knew what.

To most people, she was nothing but trouble. And I was up to my eyeballs in my own misery, growing up in an abusive home. I reckon that because I was natural nurturer even back then, it was no surprise I ended up hanging out with her, albeit briefly. I suppose a part of it was that I saw some common ground in our shared struggles.

And that choice could have cost me my life.

At 13, Bobbi Jo had been talking to two much older guys. They were at least in their late 20s. One Sunday, she arranged for us to meet them to hang out for the afternoon. I didn’t know what that meant specifically, or where we’d go, but I figured we’d probably end up at a nearby park or maybe walk up to the DQ for ice cream or something like that. All I did know was that I wanted to fit in and the last thing I needed was to be labelled a chicken. So off we went to meet them in the church parking lot down the alley from my house.

Go to the park? Go for ice cream? Oh, Lordy. Nope. Before I knew it, they were getting out of their two-door car and pulling the seats forward for us to get in the back. I knew that was incredibly dangerous; I was a smart girl. But anything resembling good sense went right out the window. Plus I’d been taught not to trust my instincts. I’d had it drilled into me that my feelings were always wrong. So I ignored the fear in my gut, the little voice inside that this was a really bad idea, and I climbed right in.

I was absolutely terrified but I didn’t dare speak up. Bobbi Jo was acting all tough — all 5'2" of her; she was a scrappy little thing, I’ll give her that. Was she really not afraid? Or just putting on more of those great acting skills I’d seen in previous weeks? I suspect it was the former, given that she’d arranged this whole ridiculous event.

They took us to their house, which was in the seediest part of downtown Calgary. You know, the kind of area where it’s all hookers and drug dealers and knife fights… The kind where adults don’t dare go in broad daylight, much less at night — unless you live that lifestyle. And you never go there if you’re a 14-year-old kid.

This ramped up the fear factor a few notches. Into their house we went, Bobbi Jo not seeming to have a care in the world, while I was trying to act all cool and grown-up, and hoping they wouldn’t see how frightened I was.

We sat in the living room and they brought in bottles of cold beer and a couple of joints. Immediately, the situation felt more ominous. Still, I tried to keep up appearances, pretending to be cool, even though I wanted nothing to do with any of it. Never one to like beer or weed, I had as little as possible of both, while trying to look like I was all in. I was afraid of what might happen to me if I objected.

I’d barely even been kissed a time or two by the age of 14. I was painfully shy and not interested in boys — much less grown men who were twice my age. But Bobbi Jo was being extremely flirty with one of the guys, cuddling up on his lap and kissing him. Soon, the two of them disappeared into a bedroom, leaving me on the couch with the other guy. And that’s when things went from bad to terrifying. He was all hands, pressuring me, groping, while I kept pushing his hands away. He was like an octopus; it seemed like the more I pushed away his hands, the more of them he had.

I kept saying no even “above the waist” but when his hands started heading south, I was more insistent. He wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. I even lied and used the excuse of it being “that time of the month”. But he said he didn’t care and continued trying to unzip my jeans and get his hand inside.

I was scared out of my mind — and was pretty sure Bobbi Jo and I were not getting out of this alive.

Thank heaven, out of nowhere Bobbi Jo started screaming hysterically in the bedroom. I don’t know what happened in there, but moments later, she emerged, sobbing and freaking out with the guy right behind her looking bewildered. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before they said they’d take us back and we were in the car once again.

However, I remember sitting in that car, my heart racing, sure they were going to take us out to the country to kill us and dump our bodies. After all, we were minors. We could identify them. We knew where they lived. Bobbi Jo was obviously a loose cannon; maybe these guys freaked out about what she’d tell the police. My imagination went to all kinds of places, none of them good, all of them quite realistic to consider in the circumstances.

I was never so happy to see that church parking lot, or to get the hell out of the back of a car.

I didn’t hang around with Bobbi Jo after that, and it wasn’t long before she was gone. She disappeared from school as suddenly as she had arrived. No one seemed to know what had happened to her and her family.

Despite her chaotic and troubled life, she taught me something valuable that day. She was an unexpected mentor — a warning, really. She showed me how dangerous it can be to ignore your intuition, how critical it is to trust that inner voice when something feels off. It took me years to truly learn how to listen to that voice, but that afternoon was a huge wake-up call. Bad things really can happen, and we were just insanely lucky that day. It could have been so much worse.

Sometimes the people who show us the most important lessons are the ones who live in chaos themselves. Bobbi Jo was far from a role model, but she taught me the importance of listening to my gut, and to use the brains I was given to make better decisions when it came to keeping myself safe from physical harm.

I still can’t believe I actually got in that car that day…