The Tapestry of Scars: A Life Unflinching

My story isn't a melody, but a discordant symphony of loss and resilience. It begins at the tender age of four, by the banks of the Saco River. The memory flickers, a horrifying snapshot: my eighteen-month-old cousin, gone. Drowned. The world shattered then, innocence fractured.

Three years later, another searing picture. My uncle, engulfed in flames, his screams echoing "My boots! My boots!" A grotesque image of a man burning alive. My second brush with death, as I was left behind in the building while it was burning. However, my uncle snatched me up, thankfully, I saw the flames engulf the spot where I had just stood. The scars on my soul etched deeper.

At eight, a St. Bernard/Rottweiler mix turned beast, tearing a gaping wound in my arm. Literally tearing my bicep out. Surgery, reconstruction, a constant reminder of the brutality life could unleash.
Nine years of age molested by a Camper at the campground we were staying at for the summer. We sent him to prison but the torment and pain to go through such a case was horrendous.

The descent continued. By eleven, I found myself locked in the Atlanta YDC, a place where torment became routine. Until I broke. When the violence mirrored back the world's. The cycle spun. I lost full control of my mental stability. Locked facilities became home, a grim substitute for the one I'd lost. Eventually, landing in West Central Georgia Regional in Columbus, Georgia.

Where I was left behind by my parents, they moved to Maine, while I stayed in Georgia in placement. Until I was 15, when Georgia threatened my mother to Extradite her and charge her with Felonious Child Abandonment, I was sent on a flight back to Maine.

Which was short lived, as I wound up, back in placements, until I was 18.
This time sent to Portsmouth, Virginia. At a place known as Pines Residential Treatment Facility.

Eighteen arrived, a bittersweet freedom. But freedom offered no solace. My friend, Daniel, chose the final escape – hanging. Just five days before my birthday. The hilarity to me was that they asked me to sign myself in until I turned 21.  I laughed hysterically when they approached with the paperwork knowing full and well there was no way I would ever sign.

Years blurred. My brother, my only full-blooded sibling, followed Daniel's path at twenty-three. Suicide claimed him too, leaving an emptiness that echoed. Then, James, my youngest brother, murdered in Texas – a victim of misplaced trust.

The blows kept coming. My older brother, seemingly invincible, succumbed to a heart attack at work. Still young, ripped from life.

Two births, two unimaginable losses. My son, Junior, entered the world a silent arrival, a stillborn tragedy. My daughter, Heavyn-Myst, breathed for a mere three hours before leaving forever.

The weight of it all threatened to crush me. Drugs offered a twisted escape, a path that led to homelessness and despair. The desire to end it all, a constant whisper. Losing numerous family and friends to Overdose, Murder and Suicide over the years that have passed way too many to mention all of them and out of respect, I won't speak on their names without their family's permissions.

Then, a tragic miracle. February 3rd, 2023. Seven heart attacks, a brush with mortality. I woke up. A chance, a reprieve.

This is my story. A tapestry woven with dark threads, but also threads of resilience. Each scar a testament to battles fought, a reminder of the unwavering will to survive.

This isn't a happy tale, but it's mine.  It's a story of the depths of despair and the unyielding human spirit. It's a story yet to be written, a testament to the fact that even in the face of unimaginable tragedy, there's always a chance for a new chapter.