Don’t Lose Hope

In small parts of the world I have experienced so much and still so little. Many ways of living, suffering, and surviving have stood before my eyes. Hesitation weighs heavy as I consider that I may, inspite of having seen so little, have seen more and had more to absorb about life than the average soul. This saddens me, deeply.

Deeped is my knowledge in the pain of (wo)man. Traveling in a near gypsy-like manner exposed my mind to many worlds. Historically, the domiciles which I have resided in range from the filthy basement of a million dollar three bedroom house with a yard in one of the richest areas of the country, to leaves on the ground in the woods and many things inbetween. This granted opportunity and gave way to the experiences of (not in chronological order) icicles on the inside of windows,

sleeping on concrete,

going years without an actual bed,

staring at the ground itself through holes in the floor around toilet,

collapsed ceilings,

massive mold,

bugs on my face and crawling around my body and rustling the leaves near my head keeping me awake,

waking up to being rained on,

running in the woods to get out of predator territory and away from a natural predator as a child trying to find a safe place to sleep,

sleeping on a moldy and all bodily-fluids covered mattress,

how cold it can surprisingly get sleeping in a car,

the headaches from sleeping under a bridge,

staring through a tiny scratch in a narrow frosted window to see the sky and grass,

getting dizzy on the sidewalk by passing cars by being locked up for so long,

being timed warped into new technology to get caught up on upon being released,

my dad walking out the door and never coming back leaving me alone in a house in the woods far away from any civilization,

various drugs and an OD from existentially tripping balls off of cough medicine.. everything is numbers, it all has a code, everything is meticoulsy designed beyond our comprehension and there lives a color we have never seen before and won’t until we die,


various forms of rape and sexual harrasement,

my own depths of depravity in attempts to escape reality,

severe illnessess,


training for the marines,

being a fetish model both runway and still photography,

Domming and being mentored to Dom other broken souls,


being a secretary,

being a stock girl and truck pusher,

working construction,

eating and breathing fire,

being a car saleswoman for a day,

learning the seven deadly virtues of broadswording,

parties from rich to poor,

the ‘backstage’ of performance venues,

dumpster diving,


an underground secret society that I left,

horrific mistreatment of animals in every setting,

the life completely fade from human eyes,

performing life saving CPR,

seeing too many dead bodies some of which were dismembered,

throwing somebody through a first-floor window,

attempting and failing to kill my mother as a child for the revenge of so much abuse and neglect while the 911 operator hung up on her thinking it was a prank… she deserved some of my wrath but, certainly not to be hung up on and ignored by an emergency help line while I had my hands around her throat laughing maniacally at her helplessness for what she did, allowed to happen and lied about to CPS,

watching my dog get hit by a car and holding her as she died wagging her tail so happy to see me,

my mother not allowing me to attend my grandfather’s funeral because it would be ‘disrespectful’… I love him and he loved me,

my father having sex with my ‘friends’ and giving a pregnant woman and my underage friends fentanyl,

poor schools,

raising abused and neglected children who weren’t my own,

losing the flesh and blood inside of me,

being medically abused and neglected,

discovering long lost family and being rejected after growing up with no relatives except for grandpa who died when I was young,

becoming disabled,


… this really doesn’t cover much at all.

For all that I have experienced, I have witnessed too many of the same experiences and more in the lives of others.

Life is chaos.

For all the bad I see, the diamonds in the rough of humanity glow vibrantly for me.

We are insane creatures with the power to maintain sanity if we so choose and help each other to do so. For the most part, we don’t.

All walks of life suffer and all walks of life ignore and marginalize the suffering of others, even if it is identical to their own in many ways and even caused by the same reasons.

The world has been so cruel to us that we are afraid to truly reach out for help, accept help, and give help. In many ways, many are blind to what help actually is.

Help looks like the light in a child’s eyes when you actually see them and guide them with love and wisdom when they have otherwise been abandoned.

Help looks like the light in the man’s eyes as he thanks your saving his life from a hospital bed even though he later kills himself.

Help looks like fighting fear and putting your hands and lips on a blue-grey naked body to try and bring a life back, against the odds while not admitting defeat.

Help looks like giving away your first Christmas tree with someone special to a family in need so some kids can have something for Christmas instead.

Help looks like those kids whose eyes light up and jaws drop when getting your Christmas tree to keep, insisting that you stay and decorate it with them.

Help looks like offering a hand to someone eyeing something out of their reach at the store.

Help looks like checking in on the old lady next door and making sure she is eating by bringing some food she enjoys when you visit.

Help looks like smiling warmly and sincerely at someone who is not smiling.

Help looks like speaking up when someone is being hurt.

Help looks like defending the defenseless.

Help looks like encouraging and challenging one another to be better than we are while accepting who we are without judgemental bias.

Real help looks like love.

It helps to have hope.

If we fill the world with real help, we fill the world with love.

Never stop loving.

Never stop helping.

Never stop trying to be helped if you need it. The problem isn’t that you need help or how much help you need but, that there is not enough or adequate help in the world so the odds are against getting real help quickly. Keep fighting the long tough and rough battle, my warrior friend. A warrior you truly are. You will get there. The world will get there.

Don’t lose hope.

It helps.


Nice to Myself.

Time to be nice to myself and lay out my strengths before me and this dairy that nobody knows exists.

I have incredible self control until my PTSD takes over. I am not weak because I have PTSD. I survived and that took enormous amounts of strength!

I am incredibly kind.

I stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.

I am both empathetic and sympathetic.

I keep my hardened heart open.

I deeply enjoy helping others even with the smallest of things.

I have immense passion and reverence for Earth and everything that encompasses her wilderness.

I love to love.

I love to console and comfort.

I am creative.

I give good hugs and handshakes.

I am a deep thinker.

I am able to change my position when presented with new information.

I work hard to forgive.

I am able to forgive.

I am great with kids and animals.

I value all life, even life I do not agree with or like.

I believe in rehabilitation over persecution.

I like to sing, whistle, and hum.

I handle physical pain like a pro.

That’s 20 things so far…

The Dance

Maybe it’s selfish… but I feel so much guilt. So many what ifs… and so much heartbreak.

He picked her up out of the dumps and did everything he could. It was heart warming to see him stick by her. He asked me to befriend her so she could have a positive influence. I gladly accepted.

Much like myself, she didn’t really have real life female friends who weren’t a terrible influence and we seemed to have a lot in common. Although nervous, I was excited for the chance to be real friends with her.

After that, I spent most of the last year sick ontop of my chronic illnesses. So, I wasn’t around much. In that time, she got pregnant, and I still didn’t see her. She struggled through rehab and relapse, and I still wasn’t there. I was at home struggling with my illnesses and wallowing in my own misery.

I feel like I let him and them down. Maybe things could’ve been different if I had sucked it up instead of not wanting anyone to see me in the state I’ve been in. Maybe she would have felt she could talk to me instead. Maybe things would be different.

Now she’s dead.

They made her do the dance.

China white.


Baby and all.

They knew she was pregnant when they sold it to her.

She was due soon.

And she left behind a young son.

Who would do that?


How does someone give a struggling addicted pregnant mother THE DANCE!!???!!!

What in the hell is wrong with them?!?!

Are the herion dealers so addicted to money and the mockable ‘thug life’ that keeps themselves down, that this is really the price they are really willing to pay? Murdering pregnant women?!?


HERION dealers murder pregnant women.

HERION dealers tested their products potency on a PREGNANT MOTHER!

HERION dealers left behind a son and would be father. A father who wanted to make her, her son, and their baby, a good and stable family. He worked hard to make sure he could provide.

Now his home he moved to for a family he wanted to start and care for is empty. And the son he wanted to be a father to and started to be a father to likely won’t end up in his custody since they weren’t married yet.

Her living son lost two parents in one blow, three total, and his little brother or sister.

Do you see, HERION dealers, the trickle affect of pain and turmoil you cause?! You destroy, obliterate lives and hope!








But, you do not have to be pure scum whose death will be welcomed with grand joy and relief. Just stop.




Common Sense

Imagine a lush Earth without people and our creations.

Now add one adult person in an area abundant with life who is brand new or who has total amnesia without recollection of language or even the sky and land; a person with a completely fresh look upon the world.

The circumstances here are that this person is hungry and never sees animals eat and is never attacked.

What would that person do to eat?

I am certain that person would surmise that that stationary thing next to himself that smells good and has that aesthetically pleasing thing dangling from it that smells enticing, would reach for it and eventually take a bite.

I am also certain that person would not, instead, even think to take the effort to bludgen, strangle, or fasten a tool to kill and eat any of the animals that are before him.

He would not kill, even for food, without an external influence suggesting this to him.

He would instead seek companionship, isolation, or a combination of the two aforementioned from animals, at his will.

With no prior knowledge the fruit is designed to allure creatures to eat it.

For humans, the animal is not.

Looking at meat and getting hungry is a trained response.

Eating meat becomes an addiction.

Eating meat makes us feel good for a variety of reasons.

Just like with drugs, we have withdrawel symptoms (sometimes quite severe) should we quit eating meat abruptly.

One must wean themselves off of meat slowly to avoid these symptoms as much as possible.

Weaning off meat takes longer than any other drug to avoid symptoms.

What is an addictive drug to one species may not be an addictive drug to another species.

Meat is an addictive drug to human species.

Addictive drugs can provide benefit to people.

Meat provides short term benefit with hefty consequences that extend beyond and also includes oneself.

Humans do not require meat to thrive.

Humans do thrive from eating only fruits or fruits and vegetables.

Eating meat, once aware of the price paid and addiction caused, is a self-destructive behavior.

Seek help.

Help is out there.

We aren’t all blinded by our addictions.

I relapsed.

I am about 2 weeks sober.

My brain, heart, and free will are bigger than my addiction.

I used to be fanatical about meat. I drooled like a baffoon for it and would glady kill for it.

I wised up.

I learned about the true costs of my addiction.

Now I am fighting my addiction one day at a time.

You can fight your addiction too.

Easter Eggs

The last Easter my sister and I spent together before the family broke up, I took our plastic eggs from our dollar store baskets grandma gave us and hid them in the yard for her. Our parents were too preoccupied to spend the day with us and I wanted it to feel special for her. She didn’t know I hid them and that allowed me to pretend to egg hunt with her. There weren’t other kids around living in the deep sticks with us and I didn’t want her to hunt them alone.

Her face was so warming and bright finding those eggs! It’s a lovely memory only her and I share, if she remembers.

I love her so much.

I miss her.

It does more than hurt and crush me. I can’t go a holiday season without crying and battling this more than hurt feeling. It exhausts me just thinking of a way to describe the mix of awful emotions that weigh me down.

I can’t let go.

I abandoned her.

It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t my fault we were seperated… Not when I was her mother figure and big sister. It doesn’t matter how young I was. I was her protector and I disappeared.

My nearly immediate removal from her life hurt us both.

She won’t talk to me now.

It’s been years since I have seen her, felt her crushing hug and ear shattering squeals of glee shouting “SISSY!!”.

She has been so manipulated and neglected that after nearly a decade apart, she believes I abused her. This coming from the girl who once wrote me a letter when my parents threw me away to the state saying, in her adorable and terrible little kid hand writing, that she was sorry she was a bad sister, that it was her fault I was in there, and that she and our dog missed me and loved me so so so so much and hoped that I got to come home real soon… I guess she didn’t realize we didn’t share the same home anymore.

I balled my eyes out when I read that.

She was the perfect sister.

It was not her fault.

I can only imagine what our parents told her to make her think that.

And they did it agian.

They always said we would fight and not get along but we were glued at the hip. It honestly seemed to irriate our mother, especially. With two types of abusers in charge in the middle of nowhere, we were all we had.

Now, somehow, I am the boogieman.

The girl I threw myself infront of to protect her from the blows of our father, is scared of me.

I guess it’s easy for her to lay her unresolved trauma on me when I have been so far away for so long and in her eyes, abandoned her when she needed me most as the family crumbled.

She won’t even meet me in public.

She actually told me she was afraid of me, the last we spoke.

I don’t know how my heart didn’t literally break when those words pierced my ears.

“I’m afraid of you.”

Our parents got what they wanted; to be right, always, at any cost. Our special bond is broken but, they can never make me stop loving her, no matter how much they tell her lies to hate me and to be afraid of me.

I pray one day GOD will resurrect our special bond and keep working on my heart and soul to forgive our parents for all they have done to destroy us.

Maybe one day, when we’re old and grey, she’ll come around and we can have a real Easter egghunt together on Easter, sing carols again on Christmas, sing Happy Birthday to each other, and finally live our lives together, instead of survive apart.


I was on probation once. I was 13.

I was sent to do community service at the fair picking up trash. I was told I would be directed once I got there. When I got there there was nobody to tell me where to go, not even a cop, and my abusive father had already left. Smartphones weren’t a thing yet and reception was scarce anyway. So, I walked around and picked up trash since I was poor and had no money for the fair. Good thing there was a drinking fountain.

“You missed a piece.”

I looked up to see a line of snickering middle aged men with one’s hand outstretched pointing to a wrapper on the ground. Feeling depressed, I picked it up anyway.

I found out this line up was indeed a lineup of men on probation doing commuinity service. I stuck with them thinking maybe whoever was in charge has to show up soon, right? Growing up in my dad’s messed up world, I didn’t think too much of the fact that they put unsupervised adults and minors (later a younger teen male arrived) together. At least not until I was forced into drinking beer with them while noone noticed when all I really wanted to was go hide in the woods behind my home and observe all the life.

Hidden behind a bush, surrounded, and being forced to chug disgusting cheap beer, the cops show up and arrest me and one other guy while everyone else bolted away on foot in different directions. Later my dad angrily picks me up at the station and the family of the guy who also got arrested hurled trashy insults at me for telling the truth even though the cops didn’t even seem to believe me. Violated from so many angles that day…even in some ways that took a few years to figure out.

A few years later, I get a few new neighbors after moving from the area where I was on probation. Two kids my age. A girl and a boy. I became friends with the girl. The boy was none other than the other minor from that day at the fair. I eventually become friends with him, too.

I was visiting one day and the guys were in the small barn right next to the home. I stopped over to say hi before heading in. I was asked to hangout for a minute, they had some questions. It was just the boy and his uncles. They had been drinking. Turns out they were mighty high too. The one even had a broken shin that was sticking out over an inch from his skin and he was acting like it wasn’t even there. They pinned me down. They forced the boy to do it too.. like they had some initiation he was forced into. He didn’t want to.. his eyes hurt and confused but why was he hard? How twisted up did they have him? If they did this to me, what did they do to him?

The next day in the morning, I was called to the guidance counsiler’s office. I was told that I needed to stop spreading rumors that the girl’s 5 uncles and her brother raped me, just to have them arrested. Just like that, before I uttered a word to a single soul, all my betrayel and trauma had been silenced. I was caught off guard and further crushed while already extremely disassociated, traumatized, and in pain from the evening before.

Later that day, when we got home, I went to confront her. I was shocked she even knew anything about it, let alone that she did what she did. Her mom thought I was going to beat her up and she was going to let me do it too. My dad showed up as she was yelling at me, seemingly believing that I really was lying about it even though I still hadn’t even spoken a word about it to anyone except right then and there as I confronted her. He grabbed me by my hair while calling me names no father should call his child and yanked my face into the gravel.. smearing it. I was sent to the car when he was done while I listened to him apologize for my behavior as if he were a man of dignity.


I saw my face today as I screamed in horror feeling as if I was facing sudden death.

I had heard a loud bang while vacuuming the hallway.

My PTSD was triggered, all the memories simultaneously flooded around me… I let out a blood curdling scream. The bang was from the end of the hall where a long and cheap door mirror hangs on the wall. I saw my reflection. I saw my fear in my own eyes. And thanks to a connective tissue disorder, I saw how unnaturally and eerily far my jaw dropped and mouth opened while screaming. I saw how my body looks as I cower standing. I saw my raw unadulterated terror.

Is this what they saw? Did they see this and still proceed?

I feel scarred by own reflection…

That image, it was so surreal. It was instantly seared into my mind. Another terrible memory to never go away.

I was instantly terrified by the live reflection. Seeing it on video, I would imagine would not be as bad. You could prepare… in the moment there just isn’t time. It’s so raw.. so surreal, so painful.

Soon after, my emotions became saturated with shame, guilt, self-loathing, and embarrassment. All over a sound, in less than a second, my life is torn asunder. How pathetic. How weak.

Why do I still think this way?!

I abuse myself now.

I can’t even show myself compassion after witnessing that terror.

No wonder they didn’t either.