Self Harm.

As you all know, I run a page called Ramblings of a Bipolar Sober Chick, hence the name of my blog.  It deals with a lot.  Not just strictly the label of bipolar disorder or addiction, but the many underlying facets of those two things.  There is so much that can go into a list under the heading of bipolar disorder alone, so we'll just say "mental illness" for the sake of argument.  I struggle with depression, mania, PTSD, OCD, anxiety and self harm.  Not everyone will have all of those things, but many do.  Depression and mania obviously lie directly under bipolar disorder.

Hi, I'm Barbara, if we haven't "met" yet.

If the subject of self harm is hypersensitive for you, you may want to stop reading here.

I think the first time I ever harmed myself, I was around 16 years old, but it wasn't a regular thing.  As a matter of fact, it didn't become a "thing" until well into my adulthood, right around the time I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  That wasn't until I was about 30 years old.  It became serious when I was around 39.  I'm 45 years old now.  So you can take out of your head that it's just a "teenage thing" or a "cry for attention."  It's neither.

My self harm escalated and peaked as my bipolar disorder was severely uncontrolled and was at it's "peak" I guess you could say.  My primary form of self harm has always been cutting, although I've scratched myself raw before, as well.  I probably have well over 100 scars on my body, but many of them are faded.  Some you can't even see at all anymore.  I believe that when people think of cutting, they always look for it on your wrists.  That's not always the case.  Actually, those of us that self harm are not proud of what we have done, so we tend to hide it with long sleeves or long pants, long shirts even.  I've cut all up and down my arms, my thighs and my stomach.  In November of 2012, when I survived my suicide attempt by taking a bottle of Lithium, I also had about 20 cuts up the length of my arm.  One of the nurses in the emergency room was quite rude and made a big deal about it, saying she'd never seen anything like that and why would I do it?  As if I didn't already feel bad enough.

Why?  Why do we do it?  Believe it or not, we are not trying to kill ourselves when we self harm.  For me, and from what I've heard from many, it is a release of pain.  A reason for pain.  When we feel things so freaking intensely and it doesn't make any sense to hurt so badly, we make that cut to give us a visual for our pain... a "reason" for it.  It becomes an addiction, almost.  No, not almost.  It does.  It also isn't for attention.  It makes me so angry when people make that statement, because as I said before, we hide our wounds and our scars.  Why would we hide them if we are seeking attention from them?  We wouldn't.  

The reason I am even writing this is because recently someone reported a meme dealing with self harm on the Facebook page that I run and Facebook promptly removed it.  It was not overtly graphic nor did it encourage anyone to behave that way.  I gave a trigger warning, just as I did for this blog post.  I will repeat what I said in my post last night on the page, that if you are sensitive to certain things dealing with mental illness, my page may not be the place for you.  It is a safe place where I share things that I know others will relate to, no matter what the subject matter is.  Yes, that subject matter will always fall under the categories of mental illness and/or addiction/sobriety, but it isn't always happy.  It's simply relatable.  Sometimes it's downright sad.  Sometimes it's encouraging and meant to make you smile.

Thankfully, it's been quite a while since I have self harmed.  I'm pretty stable on my medications; all 4 of them.  It doesn't mean I don't have episodes where I think about it, though; and on the occasion in the future where I may slip up, I will move on and forgive myself for harming the encasement of my soul.

If you self harm, I encourage you to seek help.  I'm not telling you that you need to run out and see a psychiatrist or go to therapy, though if that is your choice, they are good ones.  I'm simply saying reach out to someone who you trust, who you know will listen to you without judging you, who will sit by your side and not say a word if you don't want to talk anymore, who will hold you if all you want to do is cry inside.  I do not condone self harm, but I'm not ashamed to tell my story anymore.  I hope more people begin to tell their stories so they can be a beacon of hope to the people that think they are all alone in theirs.

Peace out.

What Have I Done? Guilty, Sentenced, and Ashamed.

I never saw it coming. Then again, when do we ever? That fateful moment that will permanently alter the course of our lives. That moment that is surrounded by the consequences of those fateful decisions you made to get you in the situation to begin with. Yet, there were lies I believed, things I didn't understand; I was so naive. It's actually so sad how naive I was, having had lived mostly a sheltered life outside of the home I mostly grew up in, despite the sexual abuse that went on there. Many people have offered up the suggestion that the reason my childhood was so sheltered and I wasn't allowed to spend the night at friend's houses, go to any type of camp, have birthday parties (expect 3 that I can remember; one, no one showed up; two, it was in my mom's bar, so definitely no one showed up; and three, my one and only slumber party I ever had in my childhood when I turned 10), or even go in the neighbors or friends houses, is because my grandmother wasn't necessarily trying to shelter me or protect me from the outside world, she was trying to keep what was happening on the inside world our family secret. That was the huge pink elephant in the room, only I've decided our elephant is purple with white polka dots. If you want to watch a video blog I did about that, you can see that at My Story, Part 1: Childhood sexual abuse, struggling, self-injury, and suicide. Hope.  This is about something else entirely. It does tie into and explain in more detail what is up with my video blog, My Paper Story, Part 2: Drug Addiction. Recovery., if you'd like to watch it first.

My life plus drug addiction was chaos directly ordered right from hell at the very beginning. Granted, as you see in the progression of my video blog, I didn't do drugs until I was 30 years old. Who does that, anyway?

I do.

I had been a single mom of 4 children for four years at that point.  It was hard and I was bipolar, but I didn't know the bipolar yet.  I thought I was just stressed out and overwhelmed. I was; both. But that's never an excuse to abuse substances to cope with it. Mine was a different kind of overwhelming and stress altogether. It was the kind that made me pick up heavy vacuum cleaners and throw them across the room. My oldest son, who was 11 at the time, said he had no idea I was that strong. I don't think I really was. I think it was early manifestation symptoms of undiagnosed mental health disorders, that would remain undiagnosed until I was 38. 

The year was 2004. It was later in the year. My sons were 4 and 11, and my daughters were 6 and 8. I honestly can't even remember how it began. A few phone calls, the invention of the internet and AOL quickly becoming the greatest "social network" at the time. Chat rooms were suddenly available and you could talk to your friends through instant messaging, which was pretty freaking awesome. We suddenly had access to things we never would have had access to before. Then, there was texting, of course. Easy contact with everyone.

That's me, second from the right. I was 30, but I certainly didn't look it. Most people thought I was in my 20s. This is when, during the times I didn't have my kids and they were with their dad, I began hanging out first with my aunt, who happens to be almost the same age as me, and a lot of friends that were into a lifestyle that I wasn't necessarily into; but that quickly changed.  I started smoking marijuana, not just with other people, but buying it for myself and taking it home. I would lay in a hot bubble bath and smoke while reading a book, then subsequently hop on AOL for games and chatting, and laugh my ass off at just about anything. I'd finally found what I thought was my harmless comic relief coping mechanism for the moods and changes going on in my mind that I had no control over, nor did I understand at all. All I knew was that I had been raising 4 children by myself for over four years at that point, and I felt like I just might go crazy.  Even though I was, and always will be, completely in love with my children, and a very good mommy, having close relationships with all of them, I was losing control; and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Then, here this was. This plant that made me feel normal for lack of a better word. It didn't stop there, though. Within a month, I was handed my first line of cocaine by a friend. He was someone I thought I could trust at the time, and being the naive, trusting person I was, I figured since he'd done the drug and I hadn't, he knew what he was doing when he gave it to me. While my aunt was in her bathroom, because her apartment is usually where we all hung out, this mutual friend handed me a plate and a straw. I was scared to death. I said I'd never do drugs, let alone something more than marijuana. I don't know why I did it. Curiosity? Thinking that if marijuana made me feel better, cocaine would hide my pain even more? I had no way of knowing that the line I was given was not, in fact, a line; it was more like a rail.

I was snorting it just as my aunt came out of the bathroom and stopped dead in her tracks. All I remember hearing was, "Oh my god." and my immediate thought was, "I just killed myself." An argument ensued between the two of them. He thought I'd done coke before; she couldn't believe I'd just done that; I'd obviously been given too much; eventually her saying well you might as well do it now; etc. My first thought, quite honestly, was "I suddenly really need to poop." I didn't know yet that was one of the first reactions you get when you do coke, especially the first time. Oh, and your appetite completely vanishes. And you don't sleep, because you CAN'T. It's impossible. At least for most people. The picture above kind of makes me laugh because I didn't realize I was in it when it was being taken. I'm kind of glad I was though (far right, hand over my mouth) because it shows how skinny I became in such a short period of time, how hollow my eyes were getting with dilated pupils, and the redness and darkness had already started around the sockets. I want to say this picture was around December 2004. I was wiping beer off my upper lip, FYI. How the hell I remember that, I have no idea, but I do. I also had begun to drink very heavily while doing cocaine, because I found it physically impossible to do an upper without having some sort of a downer. I found out later I was actually speed-balling and could have easily killed myself multiple times by doing cocaine through the night and drink massive amounts of beer at the same time. You never know when to stop either of them. I also began to abuse Xanax as a downer about a year later. Major speed-balling.

That first night, after that rail of cocaine I should have never taken, I spent 4 hours sitting on that torn up couch you see in the above picture, leaned over with my forehead resting on the edge of a large cooking pot, throwing up. FOUR HOURS. What scared me the most wasn't that I was throwing up, it was the fact that I was unable to lift my head. I would tell my brain to do it, but my head would not lift. I had a curved bruise on my forehead for the good part of a week, and another friend at the time had to empty the pot 4 times for me before the night was done and I could finally get home and lay down. You'd think that would have been the end of that, wouldn't you? I'm about as bull-headed and stubborn as they come, and once I had cocaine, cocaine had me. Regardless of the probable overdose, the sickness, the stupidity, it had sunk it's talons in so deeply in one night, that I wanted more. What started out as a $20 habit, grew into a $250 every 2-3 days habit over the course of the next 2 years. It didn't help that I married another cocaine addict in March of 2005, which is really when this story heats up.

I knew walking down the aisle I was not supposed to be marrying this person. I had a few people voice their opinions to me. I did not listen, of course. I was in complete denial about my life. I didn't have a problem, I was not marrying him because it had anything to do with drugs, and I could control my life. I was just fine! I was so fine that one night I tried to snort coke through a cigarette and then proceeded to light a straw on fire when I put it in my mouth thinking it was the cigarette. I was so fine that when my husband knocked an entire plate of coke off the bed, I crawled around on my hands and knees and got all I could from the floor with my fingertips, carefully gathered remnants off the bedspread, even put one piece in my mouth thinking it was a small piece of uncrushed cocaine, when actuality it was a piece of cat litter, while multitasking by cursing him out and drinking a beer. I had turned into the one person I never, ever wanted to become.  Long nights turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Months, amazingly turned into years. The most painful year was 2005 for me. I lost my job and home, and I signed primary residence of my children over to their father, because I knew that I was incapable of taking care of them the way they deserved to be taken care of at that moment. It ripped me apart. I hated it. I loved them so much, that I actually did what was best for them, which to some people turned out to be an opinionated selfish thing, with their assumptions that I did it so I could be free to party more. No. Not at all. I was beginning to see I needed help, and fast. I didn't want my kids going through anything else. They didn't deserve to suffer any more consequences for my life choices.

You would never guess it by this photograph, but I hadn't slept in at least 48 hours. The night before my wedding was spent speed-balling, almost to the point of not being able to breathe through my nose. Through some miracle, I was able to function normally and make it through my own wedding. The bottle of champagne in the limo helped a LOT. I actually had a wonderful wedding photographer, because the photoshopping done on this picture is actually quite remarkable, given that I had a very large scab on my bottom lip (you can still tell it's swollen, though) that was ferociously covered with make-up, but still visible to the naked eye if next to my face. My arms were also covered in scratches, but you can't see those, either. The fact that my wedding dress fit when I originally bought it, and you can tell here that I was getting down to skin and bones, really saddens me. It was a super gorgeous dress. I would have made a super gorgeous bride - under the right circumstances; with the right person.

I would spend my nights begging my husband to help me stop, but instead he would feed it to me when I'd get sick. Sick is usually the term us drug addicts use when we are going through a state of withdrawal, because you are sick. You are sick as hell and feel like you want to die. In his twisted way, MAYBE he thought he was helping me, but remember, he was an addict too, so any excuse to get more was good enough for him. I still continued to beg, he still continued to bring it. My money had run out. My income was the only source for a long time. I had graduated from college and my job was a good one. He was supposed to be going to some medical assistant school, but dropped out. He went through job after job. It never worked. So the money started coming in a different way.

It was October of 2005 when my children began living at their dad's more permanently. By November, my husband and I were living with my aunt (yes, the same one), and by December he was a full-time thief and burglar.  The insanity of drug addiction is something I could never describe to anyone who has never been an addict. An addict would already understand. Drugs own you until you finally decide to exert power over them with help of others and your higher power. I had shoved my higher power under a rug, yet I could still hear Him calling out my name. I ignored the calling, the whispers, the screams. I had no clue what my husband was doing - at first. He was robbing houses, bringing the merchandise back, and I was pawning it because he lacked a Florida ID.

Before I go any further, go ahead and say it. You are a complete idiot.

I know. Thank you.

Completely naive is what I was. Clueless. Brain dead. Zombified. Whatever you want to call it, that's what I was. I actually believed that he got the stuff from his parents the first couple of times it happened, but one day he said, "don't ask" when he brought back a whole bunch of jewelry; I didn't. I realized it on my own, so I didn't have to ask. He had stolen it. He came clean with me, told me not to worry, that he had been careful, used gloves, explained how he was doing it using MY MINIVAN, and that if he ever were to get caught, I wouldn't get in trouble for pawning anything, because he was the thief and would take the rap for the whole thing and say he tricked me into it all.  Guess what? I was so not street smart at the time, I actually believed him in my drug-induced addicted mind, and, you guessed it.. continued to pawn items. I could sit here and list the different types of things he stole and I pawned, but it would really serve no purpose other than to bring me to honest, true tears of remorse and regret, and bring out old feelings of anger that I'd rather just leave alone right now.  It's horrible to think about. I never once went with him to steal any of those items, yet I feel inside, to this very day, that I was with him every single time, because I was the one that sold them under false identification. False pretenses. For all I know, one of those rings could have been the only thing left someone had of their great-grandmother's. If people don't think I have thought about stuff like that and have gone through the guilt process, they are dead wrong. I could say "I'm sorry" until I am turquoise in the face, and it would never cover the amount of pain I indirectly caused people. I am deeply, deeply remorseful for what I did and I am very well aware, now, that it was wrong.

On the morning of January 23, 2006, my husband came home from robbing a house (I didn't even know he had left, which was often the case), and I got dressed and prepared myself to make our trip to one of many scattered pawn shops across the tri-county area. In retrospect, I can see how incredibly stupid I was in many, many ways. Little did I know they were already looking for me, and the last 3 times I had pawned items, they already knew who I was and were just collecting more evidence. Those pawnshop brokers are sneaky little bastards in more ways than one. (Sorry, I had to make a comical jab.) Even though I was the one with the driver's license, I was exhausted, so I hopped into the passenger side of minivan and he took the driver's seat. The next 5 minutes or so happened so quickly, nothing registered in my head at first. Nothing. I felt like an empty balloon with eyeballs just staring off into space, somewhat floating above my body as if this was just not happening. I was confused, everything was quiet in my head, even though I knew there was intense screaming around me. It was like in the movies, where they quiet the soundtrack and you see the person looking around at all the details without hearing a single thing, in slow motion. That was me. We had pulled out of the parking space, and when we got to the entrance of the apartment complex, one police car hit my minivan from behind, one hit it from the front, one hit it from the driver's side, and in less than 5 seconds there were 3 fully-loaded trigger-ready guns pointed directly at my face. This was all taken in, in that slow motion silence I was talking about. When it finally registered in my head what was happening, the first thing I remember hearing was the police officer with the gun to my right screaming, "Get out of the van now and put your hands up! Now!" It didn't make any sense. None of it. I was still processing.

I got out of the car at about the same exact time my husband did. He was automatically thrown face first into the pavement and cuffed. They were much more gentle with me. I don't know if it's because I'm a female or because I looked so bewildered and frightened that they took pity on me, but I calmly turned around so they could cuff me, and they gently sat me down on the curb. They questioned him first, for what seemed like an eternity. Then my questioning ensued. Do you want to give us a statement? Sure! Why not? After all, it's all going to be pinned on him, right? No, I don't know why you are arresting me! I think you do. Well, you are entitled to your opinion.

Please educate yourselves. You do the crime, you do the time. Don't believe anyone else, especially if they are an addict too, when they say you won't get in trouble for something because they will "take the rap." Also, look up the term "lawyer up" and do it immediately. My stupidity was escalating at a frightening rate just within that first hour, but I had no idea what I was doing. Once collapsing hard into reality and spilling my guts (no-no! big NO-NO!) I explained to them that I didn't know at first. He asked me, "but you should have known, right?" I later found out this was a sleazy trick question and can be used against you in a court of law, but it was done, said, and recorded. Nothing I could do about it. Needless to say, by the end of the day, my lawyer was super pissed with me.

The following evening, even though I didn't know it until 2 weeks later when I was released from jail, a story ran on the local news with my mugshot plastered all over television.

Husband And Wife Team Arrested For Winter Park Burglary <<<<<<<<<
No Facebook reposts or Tweets on that, thank God. The 2 shares that are shown are from my grandmother, who decided to take it upon herself to share it with the whole family via emails. THAT was fun. Also, this report shows the idiocracy of careless journalism at its finest. 1) It was not Winter Park, it was Winter Springs. There is at least a 20 mile difference between the two cities. 2) As I stated, I was never with him when anything was stolen. But thanks, baby daddy, for dragging my four children into the room when it came on the news and saying, "I just wanted you to see where your mom is."

The difference almost a year of hardcore drugs can make versus the picture above. Granted, the wedding photo was the beginning of my downfall and I'd already started to deteriorate, the puffy face and distant eyes in this picture tell my whole story. I was a disaster. I was completely void of feeling by the time I got to the jail - until I got into general population, and then all hell broke loose inside and I cried for 3 days straight, literally, without being able to stop.  All I could remember was talking to the police, like I shouldn't have, the police woman who drove me being very nice, even offering me one of her cigarettes and lighting it for me, because I smoked during that time; and I remember Z88.3, the local Christian radio station, playing in the police car and I was sitting in the backseat awkwardly with my hands cuffed behind me, singing songs to Jesus out loud with what felt like meaningless, emotionless tears streaming down my face. I knew I was going to jail, but I knew that I also had a possible advantage on my side that my husband didn't have - a grandfather that loved me and had the money to help me. The issue with that was he had already helped my mom, my sister, and my aunt so much, and I was the only one left who HADN'T gotten into trouble, that I wasn't sure he would.  I was the first in the family to graduate from high school, let alone college. I had led a picture perfect life (from the outside), with the first husband, four children, house; despite the divorce, I was still graduating from college, making something out of myself.

BOOM. Real life happened, yo. Like a tornado, hurricane, and earthquake combined into one perfect storm.

The call to my grandfather was one of the hardest calls I've ever had to make, besides the one to my children's father. Neither of them took too keen to the fact that I was in jail for, um, countless felonies.

It's all a matter of public record, and for those of you that are the curious type, I will save you the trouble of looking it up:

Arrest Date: 1/23/2006

Account Balance: ($0.00)

Charges:

• GRAND THEFT OVER $300.00
• DEALING STOLEN PROP ORGANIZE THEFT
• FRAUD/FALSE VERIF OF OWNERSHIP PAWN ITEMS OVER $300.
• DEAL IN STOLEN PROPERTY-ORGANIZED THEFT (OBTS#5901058490)
• GRAND TEHFT OVER $300 UNDER $20000 (OBTS#5901058490)
• FALSE OWNERSHIP INFO FOR PAWNED O/$300 (OBTS#5901058490)
• GRAND THEFT $300 UNDER $20000 (OBTS#5901058490)
• DEAL IN STOLEN PROPERTY ORGANIZED THEFT (OBTS#5901058490)
• FRAUD-FALSE OWNERSHIP INFO FOR PAWNED O/$300(OBTS#5901058490
• GRAND THEFT O/$300 (OBTS#5901058490)
• PAWNED ITEMS O/$300 (OBTS#5901058490)
• DEAL IN STOLEN PROPERTY ORGANIZED THEFT(OBTS#5901058490)
• GRAND THEFT O/$300 UNDER $20000(OBTS#5901058490)
• FRAUD-- PAWNED ITEMS O/$300 (OBTS#5901058490)
• FRAUD-PAWNED ITEMS OVER $300 (OBTS#5901058490)

I won't bother listing my husbands charges, as it would take up at least twice as much room.

A total of 15 felony counts were brought against me. My bond was set at $25,000. My court date was in May. I thought for sure I would rot in there, especially after the initial conversation with my grandfather, who called me every name in the Great Book of Heart Slashing Painful Names Under The Sun and lectured me on how I was the good one and how everyone had expected so much more from me. "Out of all the family, Barbara Frances, you? What were you thinking?"  Well, that's an easy question. 

I wasn't.

He did bond me out after 2 weeks and he did spend $80,000 to keep me out of prison. You read that correctly. I'm pretty sure I solely finished bankrupting my grandfather after everyone else took what they could get. I'll never be able to repay him, except to continue to show him that I'm not the person I was then and make something really amazing of my life. It's one of the reasons I blog and I advocate for mental health so much. I want to make a difference in the lives of others, in a way that is relatable to myself. He let me sit in jail for 2 weeks on purpose. It was horrible. As I said, I cried non-stop for 3 days, cried intermittently after that, but I survived. There weren't many people I could make collect calls to. My baby daddy/first husband ended up blocking my calls so I couldn't talk to my children. That killed me a little inside, because I wasn't sure at that point if I was getting out or not.  The only people that visited me were my sister and aunt one time, and my lawyer. I had a fantastic lawyer. He is our Central Florida family lawyer, considering he has literally represented us all now, including (unfortunately) my son a few years ago for something minor. The only reason he took my son's case for such a minimal amount of money is because of the time and money that's been invested into him by my family.  My baby daddy knew he was a good criminal defense attorney and was smart to take my son there, even if he did use a name-drop (me/my grandfather). 

After 2 weeks in jail, my grandfather told my attorney, Zack, to go ahead and let me out; he thought I'd learned my lesson. Zack relayed those exacted words to me and although I was grateful and crying, I couldn't help but mutter, "asshole."  It took a year of continuations and court proceedings to finally get sentenced. My husband was sentenced to 15 years in prison with a mandatory minimum of 85% of that time being served.  His release date will be in August of 2019, at this point, according to recent checking. He has pending charge that I hope keep him in prison that I will not mention here, but he did something, that I only found out about not even 4 years ago, to someone I love, and I never want to see him again. He is no husband of mine.

Zack got all but 1 of my felony charges dropped, and the rest turned into 2 misdemeanors. I was sentenced to 3 years probation, adjudication withheld, no restitution, and my court costs, fines, and first 18 months of probation were already paid. I served 2 years probation and qualified for early termination.

This, my friends, is not only the difference between wrong versus naive, but also the difference in having a public defender and having a top criminal defense attorney.  Nothing against public defenders, but honestly? Actually, I'm not even going to go there. I'll save that for another blog and one other, much smaller, incident.

I wish I could say I was immediately drug-free when I came out of jail, but considering I had to go right back into the same place I was living before I went to jail, that was virtually impossible for a drug addict. It would be 2 more years before I didn't touch cocaine again, but it was NEVER as bad as it had become. As a matter of fact, as funny as this is going to sound, the very first thing I did when I got out of jail was dye my hair and, after finally getting my van out of the impound, scraped all the stickers off the windows I had that readily identified my vehicle (giant silver musical notes across the back, colorful Grateful Dead bears, flowers, and fairies along the sides; I was one of those kind of minivan moms - the cool kind). I wanted to hide, or at least blend in. I felt like everyone who had been watching the news that night my mugshot aired would surely recognize me and point me out in public. Although I had turned my back for a couple of years, I did attend a church with close to 4,000 members, hundreds of which I literally new on a first name basis because I'd been there so many years, so there was no doubt in my mind that practically everyone knew what I had done. I wanted to change everything about me and my surrounding, my belongings, my vehicle, yet I knew I was still me and it really wouldn't change a thing. I would ultimately have to find a way to make peace with my actions, and make amends to those I had harmed. I'm thankful to say that, indeed, I have. 

This is me now. Healthy. Drug free. Clean. Clear-minded. I struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder because of events that happened during the years from 2004-2008, when I struggled in the pits of cocaine hell, but I'm healing.  Because of my conviction, I cannot go back to school to finish any healthcare-related degree until my felony is 15 years old. I have a degree in medical transcription and medication documentation specialist, which I graduated with in 2004 just before all of this started, with plans to go further and eventually acquire my Bachelor's degree. I can no longer get financial aid, so if I do go back to school, I will have to be able to pay for it. Therefore, my hopes of returning to school and pursuing further dreams looks bleak most times. I'm the type of person who never loses hope, however. 

You might be wondering why I decided to write about this. For one, it's a matter of public record anyway, so anyone who decided for whatever reason to look into my past would find it without even having to do a formal background check. It needed to be told from my personal experience standpoint. Two, I simply needed to tell it. Part of who I am becoming is total transparency. It took me a long time to learn to be honest with myself, and then with other people. I want to be able to do that with anything and everything. I have a voice and my stories need to be told. It took years for me to realize that. Not just for myself, but for others. Whether as a teaching tool or just to let someone know that they are not the only person to make the crazy mistakes they have made in their life.  If you are going to read my ramblings, you are going to be reading a whole lot of everything. The good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, and everything in between.

Also, there are lessons to be learned here:

1. Don't do drugs. Ever.
2. Stay single if you aren't 100% sure someone is good for you.
3. Don't do the crime if you don't plan on doing the time.
4. Don't believe stupid lies. 
5. Always lawyer up, never talk to the police without a lawyer present. About anything. Ever.
6. Don't go back into the same environment you came out of if you can help it, if it was unhealthy.
7. Realize that you are important and you will make mistakes. Just make sure they aren't the kind you will have to pay for, for the rest of your life. And if they are, you are still okay. You will just have a journey that is a little bit rougher.
8. There are consequences to every action. Every action has a reaction.
9. Life isn't all roses and lollipops and can be quite unfair sometimes.
10. Addiction is a real thing, a horrible disease, and yes, it can happen to you.
11. No one else can take the rap for your wrongdoings. You are responsible for you.
12. If you aren't street smart, get smart; just without being on the streets.
13. A felony criminal record affects your life in a LOT of ways, way after your time is served.
14. Again, common sense goes a long way; and it's a whole lot easier to hear when you AREN'T DOING DRUGS.

My Mother.

*Disclaimer: I have my mother's permission to write everything in this article.

This is definitely one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. Today is her birthday. I have the privilege of calling her mommy. Yes, I'm 40 years old and I call my mother "mommy." Sometimes it's mom, but the older I get, the more it's mommy. Backwards, I know; but our relationship has grown backwards, so it fits.  It's similar to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. You know, the movie where he is born as an old man and instead of aging, he just gets younger and younger, only to die as an infant? Granted, neither myself or my mother are getting younger, but we are bonding more as we get older, and the more years that pass, the more I get to know my mom; the more I love my mom. It hasn't always been that way, and I'm here to tell you why I'm proud to call my mom "mommy" today.

I was born in 1974. Her first baby girl. She really wanted a baby, but my father (who I have never met, as he chose not to be in my life after the fact) would not have a baby with her unless they were married.  So, they married, and approximately 10-1/2 months later I was born. I have no hate toward my father, as most people know, but why he even bothered is something I will never understand unless I get the opportunity to sit down with him face-to-face one day and have all my questions answered.  I doubt the existence of that day, but stranger things have happened. I am okay with it, either way, and I am thankful, regardless, because obviously I would not exist if things had gone differently.

My mommy loved me. Always has, always will. But there were times growing up when I didn't believe that. See, I wasn't raised by my mom for much of my life. I have very little recollection of my own life before the age of 8 years old.  I have a vague memory of being 4 years old and having my then-step-sisters (there were lots of them) each grab one of my limbs, and swing me back and forth, letting go just in time to where I would land on the bed in my half-sister's dad's bedroom.  I remember when I was 6 years old and we were supposed to have a birthday party for me, one of two birthday parties I can recall ever in my life growing up, and before everyone was to come over for the party, one of my step-sisters broke a bone and we had to take her to the hospital. We left a note on the door explaining to everyone where we had gone and why, and that we would be back, but by the time we got back, almost everyone couldn't come anymore. My childhood best friend, Shelley, who lived down the street, was getting her hair blown dry by her mom when I knocked on the door. She couldn't come. There was only one single girl, who I can't even remember the name of now, who ended up being able to come over.  All I can say is that my mom's intentions were good and we made the most of it. I also remember us living in an apartment complex that possibly had the word "Tiffany" in it and the dumpster being on fire one night, and us going to the pool in the middle of the night. I'm not really sure how old I was when that transpired.

I can't honestly say I remember the exact age I was when I went to live with my grandmother. Seven? My mom would know better than I would. I do know I was already living with my grandmother when I was 8, because of specific events related to that age. I can also tell you that even though I'm incapable of recalling the exact moment when I did leave my mom's care, I felt completely abandoned and unloved.

I grew up loving my mom so much, while at the same time never wanting to end up anything like her.  As far as I was concerned, she was a psychotic drug addict who chose a lifestyle that I didn't understand, at the time, over her children. I wanted to know why my mom didn't love me. I almost lost my mom when I was 6, because she decided to drive while drinking. She ended up hitting the cement barrier on the middle of a highway, breaking her nose and completely shattering her heel as her leg went through the floor of the car. If that is incorrect in any way, I will allow my mom to correct it.

Thankfully, it was one of many times that God would spare her life, just as He did my own later on in my adult life. It didn't stop her from living a dangerous lifestyle, though, as it just doesn't for some of us in the world of addiction. I envy those who learn quickly or from their first "serious mistake." Others, like my mom, and eventually myself, have to go all the way to the bottom and slam into the cold, hard ground in order to completely wake up.

I lived with my grandmother and my step-grandfather until I was 13 years old. The years I remember, from the age of 8 to the age of 13, consist of barely seeing my mom.  Again, I'm not sure how old I was [it could have been before 8, I don't know], I remember my mom sneaking my sister and I from my grandma's house in the middle of the night and driving us to Louisiana. I was born and raised in Houston, Texas, by the way. We went to her then (and ironically all these years later, now) boyfriend's house.  The only crisp memory I have from that trip, besides being woken up and wondering where we were going, is that I caught a butterfly. I loved butterflies. I was running around where Kevin lived, chasing the butterflies, and was so happy when I caught one. What I didn't realize at the exact moment that I caught it, I had killed it. I was devastated. Seriously, I was crushed over the fact that I had just killed a butterfly. I was so ashamed and sad that I went and sat behind Kevin's recliner, holding the butterfly in my hands. I don't know how long I sat there or when I finally came out, I just remember being sad about the butterfly. I don't even remember going back to my grandma's.

Through the rest of the years, I remember seeing my mom a few times a year after that. It may have been more than what I recall, but I mainly remember birthdays and Christmas.  I would anxiously wait by the window, waiting, and she would come and spend some time inside, bring gifts, and I would cry every time she would leave.  However, each year, even though the longing for my mom did not go away, the crying became less and less.  Instead, I was angry along with the sad.  She had this whole life that didn't include me and I didn't understand why.  I didn't understand what drug addiction was.  At that age, my opinion was that if you really wanted to stop using drugs, you could just stop. Just stop, already! I would find out later in life, that is so NOT the case at all.

The story varied through the years as to how my mom came to "give me and my sister up." I was told that she just decided to sign us over one day. I was also told that she was deceived and thought she was signing over a car, only to find out she had signed over her children. I was told a lot of things. The type of things you just don't talk to the actual children about when they are still young and impressionable.  God knows the truth and I no longer care what the actual truth is on that exact matter, and that's ALL that matters.  In my heart, because I'm a parent now and had to make a similar, very, very difficult decision, I believe that my mother did what she thought was best for me and my sister at the time; not because she didn't love us or wanted to spend her life doing what she wanted to do.

Mommy, I'm sorry for ever thinking you didn't love me.

I was the angriest when my mom ended up moving from Texas to North Carolina, and then eventually Florida, where I now reside. By moving, she truly abandoned me in my eyes. I cannot tell the story of the day she left right now. Even though I was 12, it is still one of the most vivid, freshest memories I have of my mother. The tears, the terror, the pain, and the fear.  She didn't fully understand what she was leaving, but my sister and I did.  Watching her drive away as my sister and I stood in the driveway crying was exactly like what it must look like to see your very last hope for survival leaving your life forever.  She was leaving us to a life she really didn't know we were living; but she would find out once she was already living in North Carolina.

For reasons I will not go into in this blog, my sister and I were taken away from my grandmother (whom I love dearly, as well, let me please add), when I was 13 years old. We were both sent to my sister's dad, because I had no other relatives to be sent to other than my mother, that would take me, and it would be a process for my mom to get me at that point. I lived with my former step-dad for a year.  During that time, my mom and I wrote letters back and forth, and talked to each other on the phone.  It seemed like she was doing better in life, she was with my second step-dad -the man I will always call my step-dad, or "Gene"ric dad (his name is Gene)- and she wanted me to live with her in Florida once they got settled.  After a long process of home inspections and all the other stuff she had to do, I moved to Florida during the beginning of my freshman year of high school, 1988, and I've been here ever since. I lived with my mom again, from the age of 14 until I was 18 years old.

Things were great the first year, with the exception of the fact that my sister had to remain in Texas for 4 more years. I later found out she felt like I abandoned her, and that will always sting my soul, as I spent most of my life taking care of her and trying to protect her as much as I could. I hope, as an adult, she knows that in her heart now. My mom and I got along great.  It was a little awkward at first.  We were literally trying to get to know each other.  I wanted her to love me so bad and felt like I had to be perfect in order for that to happen.  I was raised feeling like I needed to be perfect and it took a lot of "unlearning" to change that.  If I was hungry or thirsty, I would ask permission to get something, and she'd quickly tell me I didn't have to ask for anything. I could just take it. I learned how to have more friends. I had sleepovers and slumber parties, got to go places - all things I was very rarely allowed to do before that, having been overprotected and sheltered my whole pre-teenage life.  I was extremely naive and trusted way too easily, even after what I'd already been through.

I was 15 years old the first time I walked in and found my mom talking to herself. That's when things very slowly began to go downhill in her life, again, and subsequently, mine to an extent. I say to an extent because around the age of 16, I learned very quickly how to tune certain things out of my life and become somewhat numb to my surroundings. It was the only coping mechanism I had left, and at that time I swore I would never resort to using drugs or alcohol in my life. Remember, I never wanted to be my mother.  I knew she was using drugs again. I knew she was smoking pot, because I witnessed it. I wasn't aware yet that she was abusing prescription drugs, and that was the reason she talked to herself, didn't make any sense a lot of the time, and her behavior was so outlandish and bizarre sometimes. I literally thought she was just going crazy. I was clueless.

I won't say those 4 years of living with her was hell, because it wasn't. It wasn't fun, and a lot of it sucked, but it wasn't purely disastrous. During the times when she was "normal" it was fine.

When I was 18, I moved out of the house. I was pregnant. My soon-to-be first husband and I got our own place. After I left, my sister moved to Florida to live with my mom, and for me, so much is a complete and total mystery and/or blur from that moment until the moment when things started to change for the better. My mom would flake on me and not babysit my son when I needed to work; or I just couldn't get a hold of her. She started using other drugs; cocaine, crack, and heroin, though I'm not sure in what order.  I would visit and hear her pretend sneeze in the bathroom so she could snort a line, and find the bloody tissues in the garbage. When I'd ask her about the bruises on the insides of her arms, she'd tell me she had her blood drawn that day for yet another illness that she supposedly had. She came to my baby shower for my second child with a black eye. She didn't see my second child until my daughter was 2 months old. After that, I rarely saw my mom again for several years. I wasn't really a part of her life and she wasn't really a part of my life, and my growing family; and I didn't want her to be.  I went back to being angry.  I didn't even care if she loved me or not anymore, on the surface. The inside of me was screaming, but I could no longer hear it.

It wasn't until after the birth of my fourth and final child in 2000 that I began to reach out to my mom again. I had started to miss her, and of course deep down I still loved her very much. I was getting divorced, soon to be a single mother of four children, and I really needed a mom.. again.  It was no use. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't fix her. I couldn't get her out of the lifestyle she was in, and I still had yet to experience any of it on my own. It wasn't until the end of 2004 through the middle of 2008 that I understood what true drug addiction was for myself, and ultimately understood my mom.

Yes, I became my mother. In every sense of the word, from how much alike we look to the severity of our addiction, to the decision we both made to put our children in a safer place; I was the epitome of my mother. My addiction was to cocaine and heavy pain killers, no crack or heroin; but, it really makes no difference. Addiction is addiction, and it can be strong no matter how much, or how little, you are addicted to.

My mom and "Gene"ric dad eventually moved back to North Carolina in an attempt to get away from everything that had practically, and ultimately did, destroy them here in Florida. I don't remember what year. I was some time in the late 1990s. The reason I remember that is because one of the times I went to visit my mom, I was almost 9 months pregnant with my third child (yes, I drove from Florida to North Carolina while almost ready to pop; I had my reasons) and when I got there, my sister and I were laughing so hard, and my daughter was sitting on my bladder, and I had to stop in the middle of the sidewalk that lead up to my mom's apartment because I had to pee. Stopping didn't help. I still pee'd on myself. The worst part was walking in and finding out my mom had company.

Awkward!

See, even in the midst of everything, there were still those moments that my mom and I connected. Most of all, we have always been able to laugh together, because we have the same wit, sense of humor, and, in my humble opinion, freaking awesome personality. Oh, and we laugh the same. Extremely loud and totally obnoxious. Like, the next city over can hear us.

After North Carolina, they moved back to Florida, but it was 2-1/2 hours from where I live now; the general area I've been in since moving to Florida in 1988. Her addictions became worse and worse, but she was in complete denial.  Our addictions coincided in 2006, when I went to Bradenton for Christmas with my kids. We didn't do any drugs together, but we were almost in the same physical condition. I still feel much shame when I say that I barely remember anything about that Christmas, except for the fact that I was sick and not mentally there for my children.  No one will ever understand the pain I feel when I look at pictures or sit and think about it too much, of the times with my kids that I missed during my drug addiction, the time and consequences that it has cost me after my drug addiction.. except, ironically, my own mother. She understands.

Our communications became rare again. Our relationship was very off and on. Then I found out that her and my "Gene"ric dad were splitting up for good. I want to say that was in 2010, but I'm not completely sure. All I know is it was very hard for me and my sister.  We cried.  But he is still part of us and we love him, and we always will, regardless of his own character defects. We all have them. My mom had moved back to Texas, where she remains and I think is the best place for her, even though I miss her more than words can say.

It took me until I was 36 years old to actually have a mommy. But I can honestly tell you that it was well worth the wait. It was worth all the pain, the tears, the experiences, the letting go, the anger, the confusion, the desperation, and the praying.

My mom checked herself into a rehab in Houston, TX, and it saved her life. She completely detoxed off all the prescription drugs she was on, and then put on only the few she needed for depression and anxiety. No more what seemed like hundreds of prescriptions for pain killers that she was finally ready to admit that she didn't need. This picture was taken in 2011. It was the first picture that I saw of my mom since she had gone to rehab.

I will never be able to describe what I felt when I saw this picture. I cried. And I cried and cried and cried, and I sat there with my mouth hanging open. Then I prayed and thanked God, and I cried some more. My mother was beautiful again. This picture will always hold an unimaginable amount of significance for me, because it marks the day I consider having found my mommy. When I talked to her on the phone, it was the first normal conversation I could remember having... ever.  I don't think I realized I HADN'T had a normal conversation with my mother until we talked after she came out of rehabilitation. She didn't talk over me. She didn't repeat the same thing 300 times in one conversation. I didn't have to put the phone down for an hour, only to come back and find that she was still talking. I could talk about me, my children, my life, and she was listening and responding. I had a mommy!

I've had a mommy ever since. I am so incredibly proud of my mother that I could write it every single day and it would only gain in meaning and never, ever lose an ounce of truth. My mom is a gorgeous, wonderful, compassionate, talented, intelligent human being who has overcome obstacles that many could never even comprehend. She is a voice that needs to be heard. She is a face that needs to be seen. She is a story that needs to be told. My mom went back to school and got a degree in medical billing and coding; an ally to my profession of medical transcription. Just another similarity between us. She has held a steady job ever since she finished school and is an asset to her company.  She has a life that she has always deserved to have and is someone that I can talk to about ANYTHING. She is always there for me, and I will always be there for her.

If anything could describe the kind of relationship we have now, it would be this picture. We are happy. She is mommy, I am daughter. We laugh at everything when we are together and have fun no matter what the circumstances; although I kind of look like I'm about to burst into tears or have an aneurysm in this picture, because I'm laughing so hard. It has taken time, but as I've said before, anything worth it takes time and effort.  Our relationship is worth it.  I forgive my mother for not being there when I needed her as I grew up.  I forgive her for the choices she made.  We all mistakes. Some of us make really big ones. I love her for who she is and I'm proud to call her mommy.

Dear mommy,

I know we have had it rough.  I know you never intended to make me feel like I was abandoned, just as I never intended on making my own children feel that way during my own years of mistakes.  I know you didn't just give me away, but you put me somewhere you thought I would be safe.  You did the best with what you had at the time, and didn't really have much guidance in order to do better than that. I want you to know that that's okay.  I forgive you and I am forever thankful that, no matter how old either of us were, you made the decision to put yourself somewhere in order to get the help you needed.  You made a great decision and you are living proof that a tiger can change it's stripes if it's determined enough to do so. Thank you for having me, and thank you for being my mommy. I love you. Happy birthday.

Always,

Barbara

From Homeless to Independence.

As I reflect on what today is about, the independence of our country, the United States of America,

(or this cute meme)

I can't help but think of what independence means for me personally. First and foremost, thank you to all of the heroes that have made our freedom and independence possible. From my heart to yours. I don't think quite a few people realize how many of our homeless are actually veterans; the very people I am thanking. Take a few minutes to think about that. Our homeless are stigmatized, stereotyped, thrown under the bus, slipped through the cracks, ignored, laughed at, beat up, ridiculed, mocked, and judged; but have you ever, just once, actually stopped to listen to them for a single minute? A second? Do you know their stories? Homelessness is a result of lifestyle choice sometimes, but what if it isn't? What if it is about circumstances beyond control? If it is because of lifestyle choice, what if those people have changed? Shouldn't they be given a "second chance" to be part of what society has determined is "normal?" Are you aware that there are a lot of homeless people simply because they are disabled or have mental health disorders, and cannot care for themselves and have somehow fallen through the gaps of our so-called system? I realize that is a lot of information and quite a few questions, but there is a reason I am passionate about the subject.. and the people. 

I AM THEM.

I grew up in... houses. Different houses, with different people, depending on what age we are talking about. When I was 18, I moved in with my first husband and we shared a home for approximately 8 years. Then I lived by myself for 5 years.

Then I lived nowhere and everywhere all at once.

I am a recovering drug addict. My addiction with my drug of choice began in late 2004, peaked in 2005, and lasted until 2008. Because of that addiction, I lost everything. 

I lost my house at the end of 2005. 

By January 2006, for various reasons, I hit the streets. I would live with an aunt for a while, a friend for a while, in my van for a while, under a tree for 3 nights, escaped the city for 4 days on a Greyhound bus after being beaten for 4 days, came back on a Greyhound bus, lived in an extended-stay hotel for 6 months, weighing a mere 116 pounds because I rarely had enough to eat. All the money I made went to pay for the hotel room, just so I would have a roof over my head during that time period. Lived with another friend for a while, an aunt again, a friend again, another friend. Although I cleaned my life up in 2008, the cycle of homelessness continued through 2010. Why? Because once you are homeless, it is really hard to become "not homeless," especially if you lack resources and support.

It wasn't for lack of trying. I would get jobs. Companies would close. They would hire too many people. They wouldn't hire me at all. I would lose jobs. I would get more jobs.  Even though I was clean from my hardcore drug, there was still something very wrong, and I had an extremely hard time putting my finger on it. Eventually that finger would point to severe bipolar disorder type I, with severe depression and psychotic behavior (self-injury). 

Mental illness. Just what I needed; something else attached to huge stigma.

Unless you've struggled with mental illness, you will never fully understand the difficulty of holding down or getting a job if you are not completely stabilized; or at least mostly stabilized. I don't have the words that would even allow you to comprehend the magnitude of what something like bipolar disorder can do to you or how debilitating or even completely crippling it can be as far as functioning as a normal human being. Something as simple as making a phone call can seem like the most monumental task. 

In 2011, I moved in with my [then] fiance. I was finally home. I found someone I loved, more than I'd ever loved anyone in a relationship. He appeared to love me. We seemed happy. We were happy. I worked through my fear and eventually got all of my personal belongings that had been sitting in storage since 2006 (well, half of them.. the other half was destroyed by, 1. someone I had lived with along the way, and 2. a flood during a hurricane that decided my storage room would make a great swimming pool.) unpacked and placed around the house. I will be honest. I deeply feared mixing my things up with his, because I didn't want to have to go through everything again if it didn't work. I didn't want to have to box everything up again. I never wanted to think about another storage unit or being homeless again for the rest of my life. As the first year went by, I became comfortable with "my home" and made it ours. Pictures on the walls, my possessions that I'd missed so much, my memories on paper and photograph, gifts from my children, books I had read, jewelry I had worn, journals I had filled; all there. I was happy. 

Then I began to be unhappy. 

That is a completely different blog all together.

I shouldn't have had to worry again. I wasn't supposed to have to think about it again. However, in May of this year, while I was in the hospital, I received a text message that I was not to come home ever again.  

"That's it, you are never coming back here. You are not my problem anymore." 

I had/have no car. I had no job. I had been helping on the farm we lived on for almost 3 years. I had tried to get jobs, but because of my newly diagnosed bipolar disorder in 2011 (no matter the diagnosis, it is a relief to know there is a name to what is going on with you), it was extremely difficult for me to even test for positions, much less actually land one in my line of work. When I did land one, there would always be a reason thrown my way as to why I couldn't keep it. I tried. I don't think HE thinks I did, but I tried. I was not adequately controlled and stabilized to an extent just yet, BUT my problems were also situational. 

Again, another blog.

I left the hospital that day, in the beginning of May 2014, with the clothes I had worn there, my bag containing my wallet with my ID, and my cell phone and cell phone charger. I was confused, weak, breathless, upset, bewildered.... I hadn't reached angry yet.... and I was homeless. Again.

Had I not had a great friend that had just moved back down to Florida the previous year, I would have been on the streets or in a shelter, and that's only if there was room in a shelter. That friend took me to grab a few belongings, which I didn't grab much of because of my emotional state and complete inability to even process a thought at the moment, and then brought me to her home where I have been sleeping on a mattress in the front hallway for 2 months. I am thankful for that friend. I am thankful for that mattress. I write this blog sitting directly in front of that mattress, and I am thankful for that, too. 

I knew many of my problems had been circumstantial and situational, because once here, I was able to test for and land a position as a medical language specialist within the first week and a half of being here, and I've had that position ever since. Granted it has only been 2 months, I am thriving in my job and I once again love what I do. I am stable mental health wise, but once again... 

...another blog.

What is my point? Homelessness starts with many things. It can start with drug addiction. It can start with no one wanting to give you a second chance. It can continue with no one wanting to give you a second chance; or a third chance; or a long enough chance to actually figure out what in the hell is wrong, change it, and get on your feet. It can come from having to leave a violent situation. It can come from losing or not being able to hold down a job. It can come from someone elses decision entirely. 

Sometimes we are responsible for it. Sometimes we have no control over it. Sometimes it is a combination of both. Sometimes it starts one way and ends another. But ultimately, we are all still human beings.. with human feelings.. human needs.. human lives.  

Homelessness isn't always about whether or not you have a place to "live." You can have a roof over your head and still feel homeless, just as easily as you can stand in the middle of a completely crowded room and feel utterly alone. True homelessness, yes, is living under that tree.. or riding that bus.. or sleeping in that van. But homelessness is also that sense of not belonging anywhere and that worry that you are going to wake up the next day not knowing what is coming next, not knowing anything.

Independence is that sense of confidence that you are on your way to something greater, that feeling that you really don't have to worry about every single day, because tomorrow will always have it's own troubles. Independence is knowing that you will be able to take care of yourself and make it, even if you aren't doing it on your own just yet. Independence is knowing that you do not have to completely rely on another person to meet every single one of your needs, be it physical, financial, emotional, or otherwise. Independence is as simple as being free from your old self and the thoughts that bind you.

That being said, I value my independence, even if I'm not in my own place right now, and I'm thankful that I'm not truly homeless anymore, even if I'm sleeping on a mattress in a hallway, and yes I still get scared now and then because I know by experience that anything can happen at any given time. The difference now is I'm extremely proud of who I have become, I love the confidence I now have from letting go of all the chains that were literally choking me, I'm learning to love myself and not base my self-worth on the opinions of others, and I'm diligently working toward my goal of getting my own small place and my own cheap little piece of crap car. And no matter what happens in the interim, that diligence will never change... even if my circumstances do.

ALWAYS BE KINDER THAN NECESSARY. EVERYONE YOU MEET IS GOING THROUGH SOME SORT OF STRUGGLE.

"YOU MAY KNOW MY NAME, BUT YOU DO NOT KNOW MY STORY."