*trigger warning rape & cancer* I want you to take a second and think about one thing about yourself that -if you had the ability to go back in time and change your life- you would not change for the world. There is an 19th century philosophy, made famous by the movie The Butterfly Effect, that claims that if there is one thing about yourself, one trait or characteristic that you would want to keep if you found yourself suddenly able to go back in time, you would need to re-live the same experiences and make all the same decisions in order to guarantee that in the future you would retain that one quality. And it is this I want you to remember as I share my story. As a child, I did not get into trouble. In fact, the worst infraction I ever made was that I did not spend enough time in the sun, and so my parents would take my books away to force me to go outside. Naturally, I worked out a system to hid them in ziplock bags under the hedge. As I grew older, I also learned that breaking the rules held greater consequences for me than for my friends. While my affluent teenage peers were able to break curfew and notoriously climbed onto the top of the city capital to drink beer, my parents could not afford expensive lawyers to get me out of trouble. There was also a question of my legal residency. When it came time to learn how to drive, my parents taught me that I could not afford to speed or break the speed limit because it could result in my deportation. And while this lesson may have been exaggerated to keep a teenager safe, it became my truth. The key here is that I followed the letter of the law and did nothing wrong. When I was raped, I expected the legal system to protect me. In my darkest hour, when the campus police showed up, I thought that they would be on my side. While no woman should ever have to know how to report a rape, this was certainly not something I was equipped to handle alone. The campus police not only bullied me and warned against ruining the career and future of my rapist, they threatened my legal status and suggested that I might be deported if I wanted to make a formal claim. But MY story is not about my rape. It is about learning to live and remold myself after trauma and after being let down by the system meant to protect me. Two years later, I was diagnosed with skin cancer so severe that if I had not booked a visit to the dermatologist on a whim, I would have lost my eye in less than a year. I drove myself to the surgery and watched as my face was carved from my eyelid to my cheek. But once again MY story is not about getting skin cancer, or the additional two melanoma diagnoses three years later that suggest that I will likely continue to present with skin cancer the rest of my life. It is not even about the fact that I had done nothing wrong, that I had always worn copious amounts of sunscreen, that as a child I had to be forced outside and seldom spent time in the sun. It is not about the fact that the doctors did not believe me when I told them that I had never tanned in my life, because I was slim, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. In 2018 I had my first panic attack. I was attending a conference for work, sitting in a room of over 10 thousand people, and suddenly I felt powerless, lost and like I was sinking. My colleague with me at the time was a Marine veteran and instantly recognized the signs, but I had lived a sheltered and protected life, so it did not occur to me that I had PTSD, for my experience did not seem as valid as that of veterans and survivors of horrific disasters. For although I had never realized it, I fell into the habit of comparing my experience to that of others, to comparing my pain, my stress, my fear and my recovery, and finding it less worthy. But let me tell you that any PTSD is worthy of attention and every experience is valid. I started my tattoos in 2019. One on each shoulder as a reminder that I am not alone. My 'strong women' and 'warrior' tattoos are as much a testament to the resilient woman I have grown to be, as a symbol of the indelible presence of trauma. For although it is not inked into our skins, trauma can present and trigger in unexpected ways, even after years of self-work. I share my story because trauma and PTSD does not make you weak. It doesn't make you incapable of recovery or incapable of working through the episodes. It makes you human. I strongly believe in normalizing mental health for, if nothing else, we are brought together by the similarities of surviving: COVID, quarantine, the injustices and unpredictable illnesses that life throws at us. But we are stronger together. And each of us has that one thing that makes it all worthwhile.

Once upon a time ago...there was this girl. She was never okay. She held together by her own fears. Pieced together by the surface scars of others. She pushed herself to be the most imperfect perfect she could construct. She stood up to face an unknown so dark she contemplated leaving it all. Hiding beneath the surface inside of her soul she clung to hope. She wished her self well knowing an illness crept inside her bones. Always overthinking when she laid in the dark hearing whispers from afar. Hoping desperately for a sign to condemn the blind. Let them see where the darkness stood there is light! Leaping moonbeams to find the way to ease this pain. Seeing dark images in the windows on the stormy nights...Always trying to find a way to make it make sense. This world she lost herself so selfless. She couldn't keep it together forever. Eventually, those nightmares like hounds in the night caught her. They tore her down and shredded her soul. They stole flakes of her slowly. Tearing away at her memory. Reminding her she was a faded hopeless lost so easily. She couldn't keep it together right. Losing herself within this abyssal darkness where the chains were never ending. The pain was never easing. The fears were always waiting by the door. Her eyes strained in the sunlight and her once gentle heartbeat, thumping like the thunder rolling thru the hills in a hale storm right before the clouds part. Wishing some way she could hide. Escape. Lose herself within the stars. Paint her in the sky amongst the farthest moons. Let her create the walkway for the next girl to leap on moonbeams. Incase her story is like mine. She's gonna need a light to shine her thru the darkest of times. Where flowers just die. They never live long enough to make somebody smile. Time just dredges away when you can't find a way to spend it. I've been so lost so lost and full of pain. So afraid of changes, but change happened regardless. I have to face the way my life has dealt its last few cards. I have to make sense of the senseless. Directionless against the storms that come. They take our breath away sometimes. We keep secrets when we shouldn't. We fall apart in ways I never thought I could. Stripped down to nothingness. I wear these scars across my heart like mines in the field. They keep me fierce from the battles where I've been. I wouldn't wish the hell I've been thru upon any other soul. Watching your soulmate fall apart isn't for the faint of heart. But I've survived this much I know. I've walked the road and fallen so many times. The bruises that some of this trauma has left me with. The scars that I hide deep within. I'm finding that daily is a daily reminder. I sure do wish that I was stronger. Maybe my mind would have lasted a little longer. All that armor didn't help me in the end. To wear your heart on the sleeve is the understatement of my being. My soul is always feeling always searching always wishing for the better. I used to believe that our bodies are built with all we'd ever need. So in theory, I didn't believe we should share organs. Then my daughter was born. The God's and I have talked so many times. I was so wrong before. I was so closed minded before. Now there isn't one organ I wouldn't give, one breath I wouldn't share. I'd give her my soul. We don't grow up to be broken, but sometimes we are broken. It doesn't mean we cannot make ourselves into pretty collages overtime. Easing the pain of those scars. Making them look more normal again. But My God does it hurt. It is how I Imagine it feels for the butterfly to first burst out of the cocoon in the sunlight rays. Just wow. I have to learn how to be okay again with all of these changes in my life. I have to find me somehow. I need to find that smile I never had. I want to find that laugh when I snort.

The graveyard is the richest place on earth, because it is here that you will find all the hopes and dreams that were never fulfilled, the books that were never written, the songs that were never sung, the inventions that were never shared, the cures that were never discovered, all because someone was too afraid to take that first step, keep with the problem, or determined to carry out their dream." Les Brown Now that I have shifted my focus from competitive bodybuilding to writing, the atmosphere of my mind has taken on an astounding clarity and expansiveness. ("I can see clearly now the rain is gone" just lullabied it's way through my head). I have become more aware of my emotions and the thought patterns they invoke. In doing so, ideas and inspirations for writing are continuously flowing through my psyche. I often feel as if I'm in "La La Land" and with each blink of my eyes a new path or journey appears… There are masterpieces everywhere! And I am awake and aware of it all. It's like I have stepped out of a shadow and sunlight continuously pours over me! Author: 13 years old - 1st competitionI love bodybuilding though - understand that! I lift heavy and have an insatiable penchant for pushing my limits. I fell in love with bodybuilding when I was thirteen. Actually, I became a fitness fanatic when I was ten while aerobics was making its world debut. It has served me well both physically and mentally. Had it not been for my intense focus in that arena we would not be having this conversation now! Bodybuilding, running, and cross training have kept me from plunging deep into the Dregs of Depression ,drug addiction, and alcoholism. Weight training and wanting to become a personal trainer kept me focused and alive. However, bodybuilding is not my thing. I am a writer. I started writing before I started working out and then abruptly shifted my focus to bodybuilding. When I did that, the writer stepped into the shadow of the bodybuilder. In 2018, the desire to begin my autobiography emerged again as it had done sporadically since 2006. However, my life took a few major twists and turns, as usual, and my autobiography slid to the side and "A Love Story: The Truth About Faith" was created. It took me a year to write and during that year an amazing transformation took place: my true self emerged from within the shadow. Seeing my book available on Amazon and having a young woman who is very dear to my heart tell me that it was what she needed at that precise time in her life birthed me into the fullness of my purpose as a literary artist. About two and a half months after publishing my book, I had a conversation with God. where He explained to me that he had allowed and encouraged me to focus on bodybuilding to keep me moving forward. He said this is my truth: I am not a bodybuilder who writes… I am a writer who participates in bodybuilding. You know how in the movies when someone has an epiphany and the clouds separate and angelic voices sing "ahhhhhh"? Well, that was that moment. It became crystal clear to me that I had misidentified myself! As this realization continued to manifest within me, I received more clarity about how I should be living my life. I don't know the right words to use to describe the feeling I have from living my life on purpose now. The shadow of uncertainty is gone. I awake each morning eager to see what the horizon of creativity will reveal to me. **** What's your thing? What is your passion in life? Do you even have passion in your life? Are you living on purpose or is life dragging you through the trenches of indecisiveness, procrastination or, even worse, stagnation? **** Do you know that you possess gifts, talents and abilities that have been cleverly and carefully woven together to fit your unique personality? The world needs your special mix! Someone somewhere NEEDS YOU! YOU MATTER!!!! It's not too late to make yourself your priority. Step out of your own shadow and let yourself BE YOU!

It's been a practice of mine for some years now to begin each day - generally around 4 a.m. - journaling my prayer time. I call it my Days of Communion. I have my tea, multiple colored pens, my journal, and worship or meditation music. The colors of my pens represent different streams of conscious: purple is mine (it's my favorite color), red represents the Spirit (like how the words of Jesus are distinguished in the Bible), and black, blue, and green are for miscellaneous things like definitions of words that I don't know or quotes of people that are relevant that mornings topic. Today is my 605th Day of Communion. As I collected myself and quieted my mind, I was drawn to the amazing feeling swirling in my solar plexus. I can't help but smile as I recall it now. I can't find the words to describe it. It was a mixture of pride, satisfaction, awe and love. I whispered, "Wow, this feels so good!" The following is the discourse that followed - it's in red in my journal :) Indeed, it does feel good. It's suppose to because you are living authentically by taking the steps that fulfill your passion. So many people are listlessly bumbling along without passion and excitement in their lives because they do not know who they are. Identity begats assurance. Assurance begats decisiveness. Decisiveness begats progression. Progression begats attainment. Attainment begats a higher awareness. Heightened awareness begats a deeper understanding of self which leads to a more refined identity. And then the cycle repeats itself until the dawning of self-actualization which is actually an authentic, holistic lifestyle. People like the statement "no one is perfect". OH, I BEG TO DIFFER! Self-actualization by definition is the realization or fulfillment of one's talents and potentialities and it is a need present in everyone. It is the cause of desperate cry: "why am I here?" The inherent drive for the answer to this question is so powerful that it can change the course of humanity. Once an individual reaches their highest level of psychological development and is thriving authentically in the fullness of their potential, they have reached their own level of "perfection" (because "perfection" in this form is subjective). They have, in essence, debunked the now cliched "no one is perfect" ideology - which is actually a form of social conditioning!! Let's take it a step further. Be ye perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect. Matthew 5:48 This is the exhortation Jesus gave his disciples AFTER forty-seven verses of instructions on how to reach perfection within oneself and towards others. Earnestly following these instruction will lead to a higher state of consciousness which includes an in-depth awareness of who you are in the midst of others. It will also cultivate a heightened level of sociological empathy and compassion. This will consequently set in motion a quest for perfection among individuals thereby impacting the world at large. You see, the little steps you take in obedience to your own calling in life affects others in ways unbeknownst to you. Like the pebble dropped into a lake: the ripples of its' impact continue far and wide long after it has settled at the bottom... Stay the course. Though you may have to step out into darkness: take the step. Through the darkness is how you will find your light. Then you will see that your light is actually your self actualized.

My favorite color was yellow. It had always been and would continue to be yellow. It was one of the only things about me that remained unaffected without opposition. When I decided that yellow was my favorite color, I said that it was because yellow was ‘the color of happiness'. To me, it represented positivity, brightness, and energy. The color yellow was my color. I was about 15 years old, so he had been hurting me for about 7 or 8 years. I was living in hidden fear, but I never stopped being a positive person. Yellow was still my color. He worked at night, so he was usually asleep during the day. Today was different- he was asleep, as usual, but, today, my mom was home. We were in the kitchen, making pineapple cupcakes together. I was frosting a cupcake while standing by the stove, and my mom laughed, “You're pushing too much icing. A little goes a long way - yea, like that.” I giggled and suddenly felt icing being smeared on my face. I was startled for a second, but then I grinned. “Oh my God, you did not! You asked for-” I stopped mid-sentence. My stomach dropped the second I heard the dreadful sound of the bedroom door being wrenched open. My unsuspecting mom still had a smile on her face as she turned around. Suddenly, everything changed. I felt all of the happiness in the room drain and turn into fear. “Why the f*** are you so f***ing loud?! You're f***ing useless! Fat f***ing pig!” The sound of his voice filled the room, and everything happened in flashes and blurs. He flipped one of the cupcake trays and threw the other across the room. With every step he took, I stepped back, until I was cornered. As my tears blurred my vision, I felt my heart pound. I could feel my chest move with each breath, but I felt like I was suffocating. I blinked, and, suddenly, he was right in front of me, looking down at me. He grabbed my arms and shook me as he screamed, “What are you crying for, you pathetic little sh*t? I haven't even touched you yet.” Every word he shrieked sent spit flying at my face, mixing with the seemingly endless stream of tears. My hyperventilating made my throat catch, and I coughed as my tears continued to flow. I instinctively turned my head away, and the sudden movement made me lose my balance. I tried to pull my hands up to prevent myself from falling, and I jerked my shoulders away. He didn't like that. He immediately grabbed my arms again and slammed me into the counter. My head hit the open cabinet door behind me, and pain seared through my entire body. I could feel myself getting dizzy, and my vision became even more blurred than before. I could faintly hear my mom shouting, but the sound of her voice seemed far away, as if it were merely a figment of my imagination. But, then, he was pulled off of me and shoved away. It seemed to take all of her strength, and when he sprung back, he began to walk towards her. She continued to yell, attempting to hide her fear, but she inched backwards until she was right up against the fridge. He towered over her, and everything went silent. Time froze. I could see that there was nothing good left in his soul, if he had one. His presence was more terrifying than ever. He clenched his jaw and his nose twitched, and, in a sudden movement, his fist smashed into the fridge door right by my mom's head. “STOP!” I heard myself scream. This caught him by surprise, and he turned his head towards me. My mom ducked under him, and he tried to grab her as she was getting away from him. I ran forward and tried to push him away from her, but he grabbed my arm and threw me to the ground. My vision went black, and I still couldn't hear past the ringing, but, once I felt my mom's warm hand on my back, and she helped me up, everything came rushing back in. I could hear every sound and see everything clearly. Chairs were knocked over, and there was icing on the walls and floor. His voice was still booming in my ears, but he was speaking slowly and clearly, with a horrifying grin on his face. “Call the cops, I dare you. Clarksville's fastest response time is not fast enough, I promise.” My mom grabbed my hand and ran out of the house as fast as she could. We got in the car and drove to the police station. The car ride was silent. At least, I remember it that way. I couldn't speak. I caught a glance of my reflection in the side mirror. There was icing in my hair and streaks of mascara on my cheeks. My lip was swollen and bleeding, but the only marks on my arms were cuts from his fingernails. Perhaps the bruises couldn't be seen because the devil could hide them. The police didn't seem to be too worried, and we didn't go home for a couple of days. He was never punished. Even though he is physically gone, he is still always with me. I fight his voice in my mind every day, and almost all of me has changed. Except for my favorite color, my favorite color is still yellow.

Don't blame yourself. No one sees it at first. She's a fifteen-year-old girl on that frozen park bench, sitting on her hands to keep them from getting just as cold as her nose. Your eyes catch sight of the way her hair is dampened and unkempt. Her clothes are torn, hanging off of her body to reveal the story on her skin that she wished no one would ever read. And her face...it's covered in the grime of the city's malice. Did she fall? No one sees it. Her heart is cracked and bloody. The red consequence that pours from it is becoming frozen in these conditions. If she were to tell you that she is growing cold, you would reply you were too. It is, indeed, time for the leaves to take their last leap from the arms of the near-barren trees. Clouds should soon stop crying and instead begin to throw fistfuls of white during their seasonal temper tantrums. But then she'd take you by surprise. She would correct you and say, “No, from the inside. It isn't the outside world causing frost upon my skin. It's my heart, a glacial virus causing my light to fade out into an eternal darkness.” It's all happening so fast in front of everyone's eyes, and still, no one sees it. She didn't fall as once presumed. She was pushed. No one saw it. You didn't either. Not at first. Not until her heart - which had been freezing since he'd first laid a hand on her - cracked. Not until it made a sound so deafening that no one was able to hear another. It was as if lightening struck the ground directly in front of you, and finally, you stopped to pay attention. You were alert. You were looking around for an answer to the question no one has understood: "Why?" And finally, you had the morality to focus on investigating what lay beneath the silence that had followed the explosion of ice from her heart. You realized that she was alone. No mother. No father. No sibling in sight. When you approached her, feet crunching atop the chunks of ice that had flown from her insides like daggers - warnings to stay away - you saw the dirty tears staining her cheeks. You were left to wonder what had happened. Why was she so cold? Maybe she didn't fall. She didn't just stumble because she was clumsy. She was shoved into the calloused, tainted hands of the world. And now you stand in front of her. She sits still on the bench, staring straight ahead with no life left in her eyes. Your chest is level with her face. She doesn't move. You could tell that whoever this girl was is no longer here. A person once known is now a person someone knew. The tears are taking turns rolling down the flushed, red tinted hills named cheeks, but her face is becalmed. A snowflake fallen from the sky lands on her cheek and turns to ice instead of melting away. In a whisper, you ask her what's wrong. She emotionlessly makes eye contact. Your heart clenches and your stomach drops at the visible vacancy inside of her. “I wandered too far,” she replies. “Mother told me the streets weren't safe. She told me not to cross the bridge...I did. I crossed." She looks away again. "I can't go back.” You ask her why. You offer to walk home with her. She could get cleaned up. All better. She'll be fine tomorrow once she gets a new pair of socks and a warm bath. But she rejects you, pushes you away. She says she knows now that strangers are not to be trusted. She can't cross the bridge. For if she does, she will let the wind push her off. She will beg the breeze to be strong enough to cause the ground to disappear from underneath her. She will hit the ground and fall into a pile of beautiful crushed bones and pain. It sounds beautiful to her, anyway. Don't blame yourself. No one sees it at first. Not even you. Maybe you were distracted or just wished to mind your own business. But if you held the candle a little closer, you could see that what she really yearned for was a hand to hold. She was manhandled. Used. Who she used to be was shattered into a thousand pieces and brushed under the rug for no person to ever see again. If they would just look a little closer, they'd see that she is crying out for help. She is not begging to be looked at. She is not begging for the eyes of those around her. She is begging for someone to pull her up from the top before it's too late. She is screaming for someone to toss the rope down before she's stuck in The Pit forever, all alone as she grows colder and colder from the inside out. All alone until she becomes absolutely nothing.

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When I picked up the book 13 reasons why at a book store many years ago I had no clue it would change my life. I didn't know that I was fixing to read my story written by a stranger. A noticeable difference is that I am 31 and still alive. I lived Hannah's life but I made it. When I was 15 years old a friend called me one Friday night. She was intoxicated at a party with all males. She wasn't comfortable and asked if I could walk across the street to where the party was and stay with her. I thought nothing of it and told my parents I was sleeping over with the neighbor (just not the neighbor they thought). I cared for my friend and got her to bed with no issues. I locked her in the room and made sure none of the males present went near the room. We had all been friends for years with the exception of an older guy there. He was very attractive, rich and popular. As the early morning hours approached the friends all started to pass out. I was given my own room and soon found myself fast asleep. I woke up to the guy I didn't know asking if he could crash in there with me because the rest of the beds were taken. I remember hearing the door lock and even telling him that was a fire safety issue. I wasn't nervous because I was in a house full of people I had known for several years. I must have fallen back to sleep quickly but that wouldn't last. I was awoken to him on top of me, forcing himself inside me. I was a virgin and scared truly to make a noise. I think I may have whimpered but that only made it worse. I don't know how long it lasted. I remember he left the room and didn't come back in. I was scared to leave the room. When morning came I practically ran home. I can remember my friends calling me the next 2 days asking what had happened because the male was saying things about me that were not nice. I realized later that he immediately started saying things about my character so people would believe him when he said he never touched me. I had no intentions of telling anyone but made sure no one would believe me if I did. Something I didn't realize was that he was already 18 which made what he did statutory rape. I can remember that first day back at school how all my friends shunned me. People I had known since elementary school treated me like I did something wrong. I never told my parents. I quit cheerleading and the school newspaper. I didn't talk about it with my childhood best friends. They knew something was wrong but I shut down anytime I was asked. Things moved on and I finished the year barely passing after having been an straight a student. I thought for sure the next year would be better as junior but I was shocked the first day of school to find that my attacker had been held from graduation and would be back at the school for another year. Not only was he back at school but would be in some of my classes. I told myself that I could handle this by just pretending he didn't exist but he seemed that he needed to make my life hard. He would say things under his breath when I talked, he would loudly make comments about my reputation and would try to turn my few peers in the class against me. After a few weeks of this abuse I started taking sleeping medicine to get past the nightmares. One day he seemed particularly nasty towards me and called me to his table during lunch. He had some of his female friends call me some names and tell me how he would never have touched me. I took enough sleeping pills that night to never face him again. People wondered how I got the pills. I asked an older neighbor friend to get them for me. That moment of survival changed my life. I still didn't speak out of the attacker mostly out of fear. I felt like I was having a heart attack when I saw in the local paper that he been arrested with trying to pick up a 14 year old girl in a sting when he was 30. My first thought was he may have hurt other girls. I was so scared to tell and that may have left him able to harm others. I have dealt with the ptsd of the attack for years. Sometimes are better than others. Everyday I am glad that I didn't die when I wanted to so bad. I I am so happy that I got to meet a great man who understands my cold days. I am so thankful I got to be a mommy. When I hear people say that Hannah Baker from 13 reasons wanted attention I want to scream that she is real. She is me. I never asked for his bullying. I never asked for the whispers. I never wanted the sympathy. I just wanted to make the choice of my first time being with someone I loved not a stranger who prayed on virgins.