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Chaos still has a strong grip on my brain, its memories, the wires holding it into place… there’s a psycho tweaker lurking between each crevice & fold, tainting all that I love and everyone who attempts compassion toward me even with my irrationalities. Demons gossip nonsense on every street corner, in every rearview window, upon each and every splatter of bird shit that is seen in the cities; how silly I am for believing them constantly without a comprehensive reasoning to justify mistrust in others outside of bickering that only exists in my head.

It has been over three years since I was programmed to have such paranoid thoughts that were fed to me by a devil-possessed ex-boyfriend that’d accuse me of travesties that I could not have possibly done that became fuel to beat and rape me on a near daily basis. Between being called a nigger-lover and taking accusations of cheating on every-single-person he could think of¹, I was addicted to the methamphetamine he gave me and more than that, I was incredibly addicted to OldSchool RuneScape. It was over for my mind once I was given the “washed” methamphetamine, I was up for weeks… I lost my mind. I lost myself. I had all tools of access taken away from me, I was scared to go onto my phone because he would wake up and attack me, accusing me of the worst. I became numb to it. I started fighting back just like him and I am still struggling to release myself from the hamster-on-a-wheel cycle that he put me on. That I put myself on.

The first time I heard, “recovery isn’t linear“, I had a bit of a giggle, because I was drunk, of course, and didn’t immediately understand it. This phrase comes up in my mind a lot now as I am attempting to get over the physiological damage I experienced by living in San Antonio, TX, that has caused inflammation that pushed on all of my worst buttons. It is nauseating to think how infrequently the mind is associated with the body, and that somehow the worst part of disability is the pain that then causes depression. Our body is far more complex than that, the system prepares for death through the murder of its ego, and it comes to a point that is redundant due to the consistency of flare ups that are recovered from. So many damn ego sizzling chemicals are dumped out and I have been ready for death a thousand times over as this pain felt through every molecule of my body has been stewing for as long as memory formation began. Being a lifetime tripper is not a badge of honor, it is a state of being that is outside of my control when the Kingdom has enabled the deterioration of our species through the destruction of our environment.

The foggy air has been refreshing to receive before resting and upon awakening, it is a daily reminder of what my body longs for and what it does not: smoggy city air that deprives my body from efficiency. My body is a gift and a curse, the former being partially stolen by a world not designed for humans who function as I do. Whether it is a product of my German ancestry, Indigenous, or what have you… it is the outcome of my parents blood merging into one, and I wish to understand it as if I am opening up a book to devour repeatedly & to tag all important points for future reference. Each day of mistakes and good deeds bring unto me a wealth of knowledge that I often dismiss in exchange for comfort–comfort a burdensome toll that takes from my growth and that of my partner who I spend most of my day with. I have already spent far too much time in “comfort” most of my life to combat the negative emotion I felt from being sick and abused during my childhood, it was a dysfunctional cope that was enabled in a pitiful attempt so that my parents (primarily my Mother) may wash their bloody hands from the wrongdoings that were thrown at my only blood Brother & I. There is not much for under-stimulated children to do aside from play video games and make virtual friends when we were constantly grounded from living a life outside of the home.

Years ago I had already forgiven my Mother for what she had done, though I have not necessarily forgiven my Father… even with my little forgiveness toward him, I do feel more love from him than I ever did my Mother. It’s sickening, it sticks with me, my Mother swept our relationship under the rug and she filled my mind up with the violence that she did to me so perhaps I might forget. Maybe much I did, but there is enough that I recall that I am haunted. My Father now collects dolls, Barbies most notably, which he would play with me frequently as a child… he brushes their hair, he plays with them alone. My Mother has fully allowed him to regress into a child with these dollies and he could hardly tolerate being away from her, the only person who has thoroughly accepted him for whatever the Hell he is. It is what it is and I have to let it be for it has already passed and I must hear the praises of Freud despite his irrelevancy on a near-monthly basis and where I am then drowned with the memory of my Mother gaslighting me regarding my confessions of sexual abuse with that despicable Freudian ideology that normalized daughters having alleged fantasies about their Father. What We experience is not real, it is but an out of control imagination that distresses the Mother and must be eradicated for Her comfort.

I know what is real and credibility has been lost through public humiliation from psychosis and even before that, lost to a scamming family I had entered through marriage that threw down on the table that my Father had, “raped her every single day for her entire life“, which was THEIR fantasy that construed from my one admittance of molestation done to me as a child. My Mother had went through their unlocked garage door to bang and scream at our bedroom door, insisting that I speak with her, and after she calmed, I did. Alone in my Mother-in-law’s bedroom where she denied any sort of molestation occurred, and that she, “wasn’t surprised,” by one that she could not feasibly deny. That what my Father did was, “weird,” and that she didn’t recall telling me Freudian nonsense, and she especially could not fathom the molestation done to me by a doctor because she was always in the room with me as a child. Why would a Rheumatologist have to give a small child a vaginal exam?

Now, I must cope with all this irreversible trauma by sitting at a place that alleges to be nature, Albany Hill Park, listening to the sounds of vehicles roaring in view and making my head ache. I wanted to be somewhere that isn’t a convenient food restaurant, even if it is all organic, the fumes of it still leak into my nostrils as a plate of chicken fried rice is placed on a table a couple of feet away from me. The urban hike up here in my thick cotton jacket and my backpack with around 15 pounds in it left me with a slight asthma attack before I even reached my location. My BPM was 138 on arrival, and I am now sat at a log chopped in a way to make it a seat, which I will say was quite a pleasant surprise to stumble on. Despite some pleasantries surrounding me, the noise rattles up my head and feels like it is disrupting my healing process–but at least I got exercise, at the very least I am conditioning myself… This constant worry of being perceived as someone to worry about is a psychological form of conditioning I have also been choosing to subject myself to, especially with the addition of a couple of modest face tattoos.

My life feels like a lie more often than not when I have chosen to unveil it to those who are willing to open their ears to my bass-filled vocal chords. I don’t feel there is much reason to lie, even regarding my wrongdoings, it feels like a weight on my shoulders each and every time I say something that is not a truth. Writing is a medium I drop as if it is coming out of style when it is one that will never die, it is everything and nothing at the same time… A writer is able to paint a picture in the mind that cannot be replaced by any form of video content nor live-action shows. I have this fear that all will be lost if I were to not be careful, alongside this delusion that someone may have or will read my private written journal without consent; it’s irrational but the latter is something that is incredibly likely with the consideration that I am not particularly careful with their placement (they’re not hidden) and with how large my writing is for both of my hands. This fears becomes even more irrational when I remember that writing is meant to be read whether I like my writing or not, or whether I desire the person to be reading it–the whole purpose is to ingrain myself into humanity through words that I write for nothing in return. This is my soul. This is my everything. I never want it to be hidden, destroyed, or never to be seen again… I have chosen to become a piece of the Universe in a silent yet deadly way.

My disdain for this park I have chosen to go to out of convenience and because it was the largest one near to my location has led to a more powerful productivity than that which I experienced while I was sitting around the El Cerrito Natural Grocery Annex. The beauty and sounds of nature might get obstructed by the toxic outcome of industrialization and motorized transportation but it is not negated by it and it will persevere for as long as the sun shines without being too bright–I believe the thinning of our atmosphere will not completely erase life on Planet Earth. With being sat here peacefully I am able to hear the wildlife let loose a bit and make some noise that could be heard over the roaring cars, it is the light in the darkness that becomes the highlight of any day.

Pessimism has been a wretched curse of mine for as long as I could recall. I have been suicidal and homicidal since a small child with a strong disdain for the United States of America. The suburban life is Hell on Earth with sun soaked concrete and blacktop that hurt the joints to walk on, and the cancer of the West has infected so much of the Earth that places without such Hells are considered “undeveloped”. What a shameful time we live in that greedy Hell-raisers cannot admit their wrongdoings so we might reclaim what every species on Earth is entitled to. To believe that everyone is entitled to life that ends in a death that they reached or made happen is a deluded ideal that could not possibly happen any longer when a self sustaining environment is eradicated in exchange for a reliance on the industrial process that continues to take and make even the air we breathe into hazardous waste that we must take in and digest. How am I supposed to unlearn this childish pessimism that is based on the reality that the world is a Hellscape that is in dire need of fixing? Why must I be degraded for my desires to accomplish recovery for not only myself but everybody else? I cannot possibly be a Satanist and there is nothing wrong with this for I desire growth for others even if my actions that are perceived as rude!

It’s the last day of the month, something I have partially dreaded as the passing of time is a reminder that there is so much more left to accomplish, yet there is another part of me that is enthralled with the knowledge that a new month is to come and they look forward to what new events might drench our mind for its continued evolution. I am only 27 years old with much unneeded pain and unnatural aging to reverse in order to be the best self I have dreamt of, to accomplish all that I see in my minds eye… The passage of time must be celebrated as it brings us all closer to the future that we are trying to create. There is an erratic inner conflict I am battling that was stirred up by the countless influences in my life that were all trying to prevent me from following my ultimate dream of being a writer and doctor. It makes my stomach knot and feel the moments it has experienced rot when start to recall every other career path presented to me that were utter nonsense to my autism filled brain that only wants to be what my soul requests of me.

All these dreams of mine cannot happen overnight, within a week or month, not even in a year. It is a constant that I must work toward it and feel the happening with each lesson learned with tactile sensations and through others who paint stories with words and energy. I’m haunted by the ghostly memories of time burned through activities that are not real even as I have already placed some kind of lesson that I learned on them, it is a daily exercise to be practiced to not allow the voices to consume me. Each voice that remembers and wishes to remind me of the pain I have caused myself and to others, the pain that has been done to me. With each word that I type, I am closer to reprogramming my dysfunctional brain from the patterns of insanity that have been learned.

I must finally love myself to love my partner.

VIII – FIN