I move as if I’ve been run over by a car,
but there is no injury anyone can see.

I look fine.
I am fine.

There is power in knowing I chose to be here—
in this energy.

There is power in knowing
I can heal what I’ve allowed to be broken.
(And I am broken.)

My mind is a power I am just beginning to understand.

It’s a loaded gun in my mouth
with a twitching finger on the trigger.

It’s the cure for cancer and eternal life.
It’s the difference between wealth and poverty.

How to Make Ten Million Dollars with a Rubber Chicken
is a book I wrote to control my destiny—
to take control of a life of ridiculous chaos.

“WOW! That’s hard to read and a little disturbing.
Is that a real-life event?”

A stranger I met online takes the time to comment on a chapter I sent.

My writing is hard for people to read
because the life I’ve lived is disturbing.

“I just say it’s tough to read because nothing like that has ever happened to me, growing up or in adult/married life,” she wrote.

I thank God for giving me an interesting life
and the ability to never remain a victim of my circumstances.

There are things that happen in life most people would never willingly choose,
and there are the demons we let walk through the door on purpose.

I’ve met my fate with unwavering determination
while pleading in the dark for it to end.

I am ready to live a life that shines
with love and prosperity.

I believe it’s possible for me
in the same way it’s possible for them.

It’s hard to know I’ve lived a life the privileged cannot relate to—
that the extremes of my suffering are not the norms of my equals.

Were they spared because they are better than me?

Would they be better off spared from who I am?

My existential crisis has been whether or not to exist at all.

Should I let myself be erased
like a mistake made with a pencil
or a permanent pen?

My dad is dying.
My mom is dead.

The years I have left in my own life
are but an echo of the hopes and dreams
they had collectively.

They wanted the best for me,
and that is what I intend to give them.

If I am honest
(and I am always honest),
I will tell you that the pain I feel
is crippling and deadly.

I will not survive this
if I stay here too long.

I know I can’t rush past this time in my life,
and that I must continue to face it all in full force—
without numbing myself.

I must remain sober,

and I will.

I must continue to write.

The books I will write
and the stories I will tell
are the journey of my
Seven-Year Becoming.

I have always been
a hero that rises from the ash
to prove it can be done.

The Life You Live Is a Choice

Hard Eggs Scrambled Soft