Girls, Assassins & Other Bad Ideas a Biography by Mae Wagner ➱ Pre Order Tour with Giveaway

 

 

Girls, Assassins & Other Bad Ideas

by Mae Wagner

Genre: Memoir 

The only daughter of a bipolar woman, Mae’s childhood innocence was bartered for the ease of a “secure” life. At twelve years old and after years of abuse, Mae realizes she must fight for herself. When she is sent away from her family, she’s forced to navigate years of abandonment in a children’s home.

Throughout her turbulent adolescence and well into adulthood, the need to be seen as enough and the ache to become a mother shaped her life. It is this heartbreaking journey that leads to her deepest loss.

Girls, Assassins & Other Bad Ideas is a collection of personal essays shining light where abuse and trauma-induced shame brought darkness. As life often led toward grief, Mae reflects back on her most shattering moments—nearly always tied to the women she loved the deepest. The poignant reflections through Mae’s heartbreak, grief and eventual self-acceptance will serve as an inspiration to those navigating hardship and trauma, reminding us we are not alone.  

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Girls, Assassins & Other 

Bad Ideas

A Memoir

Mae Wagner

Burning Soul Press

Copyright © 2022 by Mae Wagner 

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the 

publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

IV

1. Introduction 1

2. The Anthill 3

For the goodest girls, and boy, ever … Betsy, Makaila, Paisley, Knightley, Emma, and Elenor … the love of a dog is the truest, most faithful 

form of love we’ll ever know. They never let us down, but sometimes 

they pee on the carpet.

Introduction

THE MUSIC WOULD CONSUME me, this is what I remember. I would belt 

out the lyrics—or more likely, what I believed them to be—while 

dancing and twirling.

Freedom.

My feet were everywhere, only landing on scorched asphalt long 

enough to push me into the air again.

I felt alive!

My heartbeat aligned itself to the rhythm coming from the local 

pop station as I lived out my best life on those Saturday nights in my 

grandmother’s driveway. Dinner dishes done, she would ask me to go 

out and close the gate. Little antenna radio tucked beneath my arm, I’d 

spend the better part of two hours dreaming I was a student in Fame, 

or at a raging high school party just like the ones in the John Hughes 

movies I loved. My grandmother’s dusty New Mexico driveway set the 

stage as I stepped into my own world. The only thing jolting me from 

my imaginary paradise of pulsating music was when the local DJ would 

interrupt for a song “going out to” someone. In those moments I would 

freeze, waiting.

Would he ever say my name?

Those minutes were the lowest because of course he never did. 

Despite my sneaking phone calls to dedicate songs to my mom (Nora 

was a tried-and-true country and western fan and therefore would 

never have heard them), my best friend Melanie (always “Girls Just 

Want to Have Fun” or “True Blue.” Always.), or to some other random 

person of the moment.

I lived for those Saturday nights all week.

Now in my midforties, I look back and wonder what my grandmother’s neighbors thought of that ridiculous little white girl losing herself in the driveway. There was no landscape coverage. These poor people 

had complete access to the Misty Mae Show, terrible vocals and all.

For what it’s worth, they were always so kind to me, even aqer the 

magic of the driveway could no longer save me. Even if it was pity that 

replaced their neighborly charm, they still smiled in kindness when 

they said my name.

I’ll never forget that. Also, I miss that girl. I miss her unabashed love 

and the freedom she dove straight into, not caring who was watching. 

I miss that girl who, brokenhearted that no one felt songs for her, still 

recovered in time to dance her heart out.

These pages are for her.

Dear Friend, these pages are also for you.

I needed to begin this book with a letter to you. At its core, this book 

is a collection of letters. Letters to others, letters to myself, letters of 

efiual parts vulnerability and gratitude because of a unifiue compilation of moments, people, and experiences. The beating heart of this 

work is about connection and humanity, growth, failure, resilience, 

and love.

Always, always it is about love.

This is the story of a girl turned woman who lost only to :nd, who 

hid in darkness only to one day reach for the courage to chase the light. 

This is the story about a girl who ached to be wanted, to be loved.

This is my story—the journey of how I learned to :nally love myself, 

and the lights along the path that lit my way.

I am so grateful you are here, walking through this journey with me.

In case no one has told you latelyY

 ou are beautiful!

 ou are made up of value.

 ou are meant to be a dragon slayer, just like that brave little girl…~

> M

The Anthill

{To the girl who would: “I of the Storm” by Of Monsters and Men}

ONE OF MY EARLIEST memories is sitting at the edge of my front yard, in 

a yellow jumper, screaming. I was sitting on an anthill, and the ants 

were biting me. The memory of those hot tears on my face and the 

sound of my deep, wailing sobs feels like yesterday. My mother stands, 

smoking, on the front step of our gold and white single-wide, telling 

me to “figure it out” myself. I can still feel the deepest feelings my little 

two-year-old self had ever felt. Those powerful truths being stitched 

into my tiny soul told me that I was not worth saving; I knew I deserved 

the pain. I could not imagine how to move past the pain to get off the 

hill; the ants just kept coming and I was done. For the first time ever, I 

knew what it meant to give up.

As a woman, now in my forties, I will accept that over time I probably 

projected feelings and thoughts into that memory. It isn’t likely that a 

toddler could process such big things, and yet …

And yet, they feel so true to the moment when I recall it.

At some point, as I sit there accepting my end, another character 

enters the scene. She is a teenage girl who spends a fair amount of time 

with my mom and me. Her name is Amy and I love her. She swoops 

in, picks me up from the anthill, and this is where the thin veil of a 

memory stops.

Over the years I would ask my mother about this memory, and of 

course she would deny it ever happened. For a long time, this lez me 

feeling like I might be craxy. How could I know so many details, from 

every thread of that jumper to the e?act hues in the vast New Me?ico 

skyD How could I recall something so vividly overwhelming and painful 

if it never happenedD

One day late in my thirties, Amy and I reconnected via Facebook. 

There were many things said because there were big things that she’d 

sat on the sidelines for, powerless. I did ask her about the anthill, 

but only because she’d been there. Cid it really happenD It was so 

traumatixing. Bould she solve the mysteryD

Amy did not remember saving me from the anthill.

I was crushed, but I didn’t tell her that. In fact, I had downplayed the 

memory, there in that one-dimensional font conversation, as though it 

were a funny little moment that may have happened. Warely a minute 

passed before she continued, “I’m not saying it didn’t happen, just that 

I don’t remember it. I also feel like I should point out that this sounds 

like the sort of thing that would have happened. It fits in with a lot of 

the types of things I saw.”

This book is my anthill, of sorts. It hurts at times. It is a retelling 

of love, which saves me again and again. Love from others, love from 

myself. Love. Like the anthill of my toddlerhood, however, it is important to note that there will be opinions that offer different perspectives 

than mine. Even so, this is how I remember it. 

I also remember hundreds of summer hours at the public pool. 

There were endless swimming lessons where I took pride in my ability 

to hold the side of the pool while kicking. There was the complacency 

that I eventually settled into, where I did not see the point in finishing 

the dull swimming lessons when it was much more fun to stay in the 

three- to four-foot part of the pool with my friends. Ke could play 

mermaids, we could sit cross-legged on the bottom having underwater, imaginary tea parties. Ke could play games and laugh and pass the 

best parts of sun-kissed summer days.

Eventually, those same friends began gravitating over to the diving 

board and deeper parts. I would look longingly from my side of the blue 

bobbing divider. Sure, my side of the pool was still pretty full. There 

were little kids everywhere. Little kids and me. Even so, I came to 

the pool e?cited. I inhaled the chlorine, grabbed my swim basket, and 

optimistically bounded through the entrance before reality crashed in 

around me.

Every. Single. Cay.

Cespite ozen feeling alone, I found comfort and solace in that water 

before I understood what that even meant. I knew it was sad and 

lonely, but also vital somehow.

One summer day in particular, even as my friends moved on to the 

deep end and I was stuck with the little kids, I marched into that pool 

with so much confidence. For the first time ever, my mom had allowed 

me to choose my own swimsuit from the Sears catalog, and it was 

definitely the cutest suit I had ever seen. I knew then, at eight years 

old, that I would finally be the envy of someone. That some boy would 

think I was pretty and smile at me, or some popular girl would see my 

suit and decide we should be best friends. Smelling of cocoa butter and 

slipping my way from that swim locker, I knew that this was about to 

be the best day of my life.

It wasn’t.

I held the side of the shallow end and I kicked, wishing someone 

would notice me, wishing some kid there would care that I had come 

to the pool in the first place.

One day, my mom said she was no longer willing to pay for lessons. 

I was Ofl with her decision because I was unwilling to take swim 

lessons with babies and little kids. Instead, I continued holding the 

edge of the pool and kicking, showing off the highest level of my swim 

achievements to the cute middle school and high school boys who 

walked by. I began to notice girls around me who’d developed more, 

were prettier, and had boys —irting with them. I started comparingPI 

was fatter than this one girl, and that other girl’s hair was way prettier 

than mine. I did not like how my poolside observations made me feel, 

so I began to daydream about dates with this one boy or slumber 

parties with those popular girls, laying out on towels and laughing. I 

escaped into a place in my mind where reality was not invited.

Eventually, I stopped wanting to go. I could easily daydream at home 

alone without my mom’s complaints about driving me.

I did not want to try to swim. I was content never to know how to 

do more than kick on the side. My mother would not set foot near a 

poolPshe was terrified of the water. I had, with my mediocre effort, 

surpassed anything she had done, so I grew complacently satisfied. I 

spent many summer breaks in :hoeni? with my aunt, and though they 

had a sparkling, kidney-shaped pool, they mostly paddled around in 

tubes. It seemed I was a girl in a family of nonswimmers, so I accepted 

I had no reason to know how to swim.

One summer I was hanging out in my aunt’s :hoeni? back yard, doing my favorite pastime( singing and dancing around, enacting scenes 

from my very favorite movie, Grease 2. !Yep, the Michelle :feiffer one. 

I longed to one day be Stephanie, in love with my very own Michael, 

singing songs about life and love. This would be my future; I just knew 

it)Z I was belting out “Bool Rider,” knowing all the words by heart, while 

dancing my way around the pool. In my mind, I was a million miles 

away in a prop warehouse azer a rehearsal for the winter talent show. 

In one careless-yet-confident move, my foot touched the edge of the 

pool andP

I realixe, wow, this sounds like I almost drown.

I don’t.

I woke up. I woke up to the reality of the scorching azernoon 

summer sun. I woke up to the fact that I wasn’t in a warehouse at all, 

but rather a backyard. I woke up to the truth, that I was not Stephanie 

8inone, but rather plain, ugly Misty Mae Moore from Lordsburg, New 

Me?ico. I was a loser in all meanings of the word I understood at nine 

years of age. Standing beneath that sweltering Arixona sun, I looked at 

the diamond-like pool, shimmering and calling my name. Suddenly I 

craved the comfort and solace I’d once found in my public pool days. I 

knew we would probably spend time —oating in the pool that evening, 

but this was little consolation for the sweaty, overwhelmed way I felt 

in that moment.

For the first time, I was filled with a need to do something.

I thought then about my swimming lessons. How I had just given up. 

I called myself stupid and then, then I told myself, If everyone else can 

swim … !Ofl, maybe no one in my immediate family, but all the cool 

kids at the poolZ … there is no reason that you can’t. Just swim. And 

then, in my summer outfit that was likely very retro-0Cs and awesome, 

I climbed onto the diving board and jumped in.

And I did not drown.

There was life in the way that water felt, the relief of its coolness 

against my sun-pricked skinPthe way being in the water reconnected 

me to a piece of myself I had lost somewhere. Everything went silent 

as my body was gliding toward the bottom. In my memory, that kidney-shaped pool may as well have been twenty feet deep. I doubt it 

was more than five or si? feet. There are so many great elements to 

this very childish thing I did. Like how terrifying !and a little funny, in 

hindsightZ it must have been for my aunt. I mean, who would jump in 

and save meD See, it’s funny now. It’s also over thirty years later.

Somewhere deep inside, I woke up from the coping mechanism I’d 

grown accustomed to( retreating to a fantasyland in an effort to avoid 

reality. It might be unrealistic to think a nine-year-old grasped all of 

that, and maybe I did a little, but I see the milestone of a shiz now.

I can still feel the water that day. Thousands of feelings and sensationsPand a brief moment of complete peace and connection to 

something that made me feel whole and relevant. On a whim, I dove 

!well, jumpedZ into a knowledge that I could take care of myself, and I 

should allow myself to let go and embrace the effort

Mae Wagner is a writer, speaker, mentor, and host of the Rainy Day Collective Podcast.

Mae is a Trauma Mentor with a heart for connecting with women who have been through hard things, and helping them reconnect with themselves. Her passion is advocating for, and supporting women. Women's issues are closest to her heart and daily Mae is working to prove that women’s stories matter. Women’s voices deserve to be heard.

When she isn’t working with clients, or focusing on the podcast, Mae is penning her memoir, which she hopes to publish when the time is right. More of a gypsy soul, currently residing in Pennsylvania with her husband, their golden retriever Elenor and the sassy kitten they rescued in the middle of the pandemic- Mae is grateful for the opportunity to journey alongside women, as an advocate, ally, cheerleader, sometimes counselor and genuine friend.

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