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I'm Just Angry.

I'M SO ANGRY!!!


I woke up confused from my dream and quickly realized I was (and should be) angry. 


In every decision made in my dream, I was in the drivers seat, but someone else was controlling the truck. 


Once, quite literally, I was in front of the wheel, unable to steer. 


Once I was dressed in a white prom dress and married to someone I didn't know. 


Once I slept on the street, homeless simply because someone refused to talk to me, saying they did it to "get a reaction" from me. 


The reason I'm so angry now that I'm awake? 


Because EACH of these things happened in my past. They weren't as confusing as the dreams were, but they weren't far off. 


For many years I had no control over my life. I had no backbone. I had no direction. Truthfully, I had no hope. 


Though I now have more direction than I did at 19 or 20 years old, I still find certain aspects are being dictated by others who should never be given that much power. They have this control because they help me to survive and not end up homeless. But those people shouldn't have that power. I'd honestly RATHER be homeless than give someone that much power or control over my life ever again!!


I fight for one reason and one reason only: my boys. 


If I lost my small and humble home, so would they. And so I bite my lower lip, pull back the tears, wipe away the blood and take a deep breath. 


I am at the mercy of others. And I'm just so angry.

Writers Sickness.

Why is it when a neighbor slams a door my heart jumps within my chest? 


Why do I feel fear at walking into someplace I've never been if I'm alone? 


Why do I hide for days on end, afraid to let anyone in?


I'm broken. I'm not as brave as I would like you to believe. I live in fear most days, but sometimes I have the courage to face my fears. Others, like today, I prefer to hide from those who have hurt me in the past or who might in the future.


These are the days I have "writers sickness" ... when I hide from the world and the only allies I have are the ones I create on paper. This is my prison; my torture. This is my never ending quest to search for humanity within myself. This is how I learn about the agony others have subjected me to. When I hide, it's because I feel weak, like I don't dare face the world for fear of it happening all over again; the beatings, the rape, the forced starvation. 


So I hide. I binge-eat whatever I can find and pray I haven't been grocery shopping recently. I write, searching for companionship. And I watch movies based on Stephen King books so that I might come to realize I'm not the only one in the world with serious problems in their head. 

Heart Scar




Fourteen years ago today, I lay in a hospital bed, bleeding to death slowly, slipping away from this existence into the depts of untold darkness. In an effort to maintain my life force, doctors and nurses searched frantically in vain for a blood vessel. Needles pierced my skin over and over to no avail. Slowly, slowly, I was slipping away.  I'd lost too much blood. I was in shock. I fell into a deep unconsciousness, feeding into dreams of deceased family members and the years of my existence up to that point in time. I saw it all flashing before my eyes. I'd had a troubled life, but I had a good life too. 

I died that day, in more ways than one. 

Finally, the nurses gave up on finding a vein in my arm or legs. They tried the backs of my hands and feet. But I had lost far too much blood. My veins were collapsing. There was nowhere else to turn. They pulled out the major tools then, and without batting an eyelash, they pierced my chest between the ribs, bore through cartilage and forced a tube into my heart. I had already died at that point, but the blood being rushed directly into my body and warmed only inches from my heart before being forced through that ventriculating muscle saved my life. It also changed me as a human being. A part of my soul escaped as that plastic tubing did all it could to resurrect my life. 

To this day I carry a tiny scar over my heart, both physically and emotionally. I keep it guarded at all costs. I felt pain that day unlike any pain I'd ever known in my life. I never wanted to know Death by name again. I never wanted to see the face of the Reaper take the form of my Grandfather within my dreams again. I never wanted to loose my life again. And yet a piece of me died that day. A piece I'll never get back for as long as I live. 

It happened fourteen years ago today.