Human Rights

Hear the Siren

She was an American girl. An American mouth. What then is a dog-eared map? What had He told me in the early morning hours? Always with the lyrics and the LISTEN. Why. Why do you call them a mystery? Why do you feel the way you feel? Who calls you in the night? In your dreams? That dog-eared map, that book, not a geophraphic location, but you definitely have to be IN it.

Big pill looming.

You were told of these days. Of when the fig leaf would bloom in Winter. Of when the rivers would turn to blood. You were told to look for signs. Who will remember Him?

And I was led, by the cat. She was scruffy. Beat down. A stray. Yet not lost. Wandering. She weaved in and out of the night, urging I follow. She knew I heard. I was one who listened. Curious. Nose sniffing around the Scent. Following. Always listening. Searching. That was me. And she knew I would follow. Same as I knew I could not resist the Primary Function. I followed. She led me to a house wherein the people danced and sang, drunk on mortality but hearing not the song to which they absentmindedly swayed. She beckoned me to look deeper. To see with her night vision what was to my waking, mortal eyes, concealed. She gave me her sight so I might see. And I looked and beheld the revelers taken, disappearing before me, though no one noticed. I cried out. See? Look what is happening. Right in front of your face. The cat said nothing but urged me to another room. Each room she led me to was the same as the last. They were dragged away and no one noticed. Heavy now with a sickened thought, I followed her to the last room. No revelers here. The room was empty save one soul. Her head laid upon the table at which she sat, arms hanging limply to her side. A single slow drop of blood dripped from her middle finger when I raised the wrist.

I knew her, but I was unafraid. Nor did I weep. I was satisfied with her death. Her mortal blood leached, she was one of the newborn. The cat said nothing. I followed her from death’s house to a clearing. An old rusted punch buggy was the last remnant of that world and though new upon my entry, it now revealed its true face. Like that decrepid house. Both had been sucked back into the darkness, that old car left at its gate as a reminder of a world that slowly lay dying, unable to hear Redemption. And those who could hear were called to guide them. But you must know when to stay and when to go. These places of deafness can trap your light. Do not waste it there, said the cat.

The cat led me from the darkness. A new light filled the place, not the mysterious light of the moon. An inner light that radiated in that place, that light, bathed us. We sat with the trees, those sentries of the awakened, who shelter. We layed on a blanket. She, still no less scruffy but all the more beautiful with her peaceful knowing, she, with her gently purr, eased my mind from their suffering. And we dreamed that others would meet us soon.

Might you remember the truth? Him? Will you have another dispensation? Dare you risk that wager, gambler? I told you there would be massive death. I told you fires would burn, unquenched. Anger would be the language they spoke. Resisitance. How then do you inspire? When love is no longer a common tongue how do you show them they are love?

Might it be her? Does she call you in your dreams, begging you to find her. Come to me. Let me in. Come home. Did you hear her what she was saying to you in your dream, Kyle? Do what she asks. You wanted an answer. Needed interpretation. What does she want from you? She wants you to let her in, and you do that with a dog-eared map or the lyrics of your favorites. That is why favorites are important. It’s a language you are meant to hear.

You’re not meant to stop the spiral, Ricky. It keeps going. You weren’t meant to stop. You were all meant to keep going. Think bigger.

You asked for a leader. But you begged for kings and queens. You would have a ruler. When you need only lead yourself. When the White Man came to this world, they asked for gold. The ancestors, knowing the wisdom of the Great Spirit, the wisdom that said, ask and receive, gave them gold. But like you, they wanted something mortally precious. Something that is beautiful only for a season, like a ruler, like a pretty faced flower that withers and dies.

You sell a gift. You have something greater than mortal treasure.

Have I found you or have I lost you.

I told you of these things. I warned you of the beginning of the end. There would be massive death and suffering. Fires. War. Famine. We now face a time in history, and yes, it was always His story, when we now have more ongoing conflicts (since 1945?). You were warned of this time. But you were also given Hope. That after those days, man would move toward a hive like mind, united, and that would be utopia.

But you didn’t believe. You were fooled. Deceived.

If there is a new dispensation, I am unaware.

Time’s up. Over.

Loose yourself. Loose. Let loose. Leap even. That would be better. Go bigger.

In the music. In a moment. You want this, trust me, you know you do. Better never let it go, WHY.

You get one shot. Better pick the right. The creative. The intuitive. Feed that wolf. I can’t be any plainer. This isn’t hard. Just listen.

Will you keep your chains or trade them for the circle?

Why the circle. Why infinity. Why the 4th dimension of time. Think BIGGER. Then think BIGGER still. Why. What purpose. What drive. What inspiration. Ask the questions of the philospher and writer. Who. Who Am I? Why Am I Here? Why. How. What for and when and where. But you are numb to your inner Pilot. You are tested. You suffer. Why. You know there’s a little more life somewhere else.

Pretend your favorites speak to you, like that song lyricist is your intuituve voice. It is sending you a message. Listen.

I’m running out of songs, lyrics, and pretty faces. You don’t hear in any language, and you dance as your ship sinks not realizing you gave away your inner King for a lie. Steer your own ship.

We gave you the gold, and we are STILL HERE, waiting for you to listen. You need to feed the right wolf. We told you this. Feed the right wolf. Why did I discuss epigenetics with you? And yet, you killed every messenger. Galileo told you to revolve around the Sun, and you killed him. You burned my witches. You hung my prophets.

Time’s up. How do you judge utopia? Of what need does perfection have of justice or judgment?

Have I found you?

Or lost you?

The clock has run out. You are in the age of the Piscean. And you know the secret of life is 42. You know to feed the right wolf. Because WHY. Cognitive brain therapy, REWIRES. Every right decision, a change in your very DNA structure. Following the right path with every right choice, the choice you were intuitively guided to make. Yes. It was there all the time. Right in front of your face. Like magic. All you had to do was listen. And that steering will lead you home. To the North.

There’s your gold. You won’t find that at your job that chains you to a world that is structurely designed for nothing but your demise. Your world and your life is a lie. You were robbed.


I’m out of music and there’s a bandwidth problem now, He said.

You must make a choice.

Will you remember Him?

In Memory of a Great Man

Brian Bowers October 03, 1978-October 18, 2020

December 2019, my husband, Brian, had a widow maker. He had a 91% blockage in his main artery. According to his chart, he was without oxygen for 30 to 45 minutes. He was struggling with many issues as a result of this heart attack. Brian joked about having died and came back. I told him he respawned with a shitty lag.

Brian and I were together for 14 years. I found out Brian was gay five years into the marriage. I didn’t say anything. I waited two years for him to come out to me, and later, Ray and Layla. Brian and I maintained an open relationship but remained married. Not just for the kids but for us. Brian called our relationship a beautiful mess. He felt guilty over me. Felt he hurt us and said he ruined everything. I told him that was ridiculous, that our relationship had transcended the burdensome cishetero definition of love and marriage, that outdated, oppressive concept of ownership. Our love evolved. I told him we unlocked a new level.

We had a beautiful relationship. I wish that for everyone. That you find someone with whom you can share a pure love and pure intimacy. I’m lucky, we were all lucky, to have known him and to have had the chance to make so many amazing memories with him.

Brian suffered from depression because of domestic violence and hiding his sexuality. He hid his sexuality for many reasons. He was afraid friends and family may not accept his lifestyle (and some have proven this to be true). He was terrified that in Trump’s America someone might discover his secret and become violent. He worried Layla might be bullied by peers for having a gay father.

I spoke with Brian’s doctor on Friday. He believes Brian died from an oncoming heart attack. This was later confirmed by the ME who said Brian died peacefully in his sleep from a heart attack he didn’t even feel. Brian’s heart monitoring app showed erratic heart rates for many weeks.

Brian was all he encompassed in his characters in gaming. A healer, a fighter, cover when you needed it. Maybe he didn’t have the best dance moves but he still danced. He listened. He protected. He fought hard for women who were victims of domestic violence. He took on all the life bosses. He was always down to finish the fight.

I’ve been sitting here these last weeks trying to understand his death. His healthcare team missed so much. Why? I thought of all the ways this dream of a country let him down. He worked so hard but sacrificed healthcare because it was too expensive. Even with insurance. I keep thinking had there not been a childhood wrought with domestic violence, had US healthcare not been a fucking joke, and if Americans could stop dictating what’s right and wrong based on religion he might still be here.

Brian was a beautiful gay man. I hated watching him struggle with this, and though it may be late, with this post, he’ll be free of the chains that dictated his life choices. Had those choices been made in his best interests, it might have meant a more peaceful life for him. He wouldn’t have struggled with stress, depression, and fear.

People don’t belong in cages or boxes. No one should feel they have to sacrifice the way Brian did. These things killed Brian. For all of you wanting an update on cause of death, that’s your answer. Stress and depression took a toll on him. And it didn’t have to be that way.

His heart literally broke. He’s not going to respawn this time. Check on your loved ones. Be a little kinder. You never know what battle another fights.

Let people love. Please? Is that really so hard?

We’re supposed to take care of each other.

Brian wanted to come out. He was a great man and will be remembered for all the love he gave to us all. Like many of you, I can’t imagine playing this game without Brian, but he’d want us to finish the fight. With a dance.

It’ll be difficult but…

…we’ll make it.

Originally published on Facebook: November 1, 2020


Thank you to everyone who donated to The Trevor Project in Brian’s honor.

So You Think I’m Crazy

Lately, I’ve had some wonderful feedback on posts and my writing. Some words used to illustrate my recent wordslinging are: unhinged, crazy, angry, manhating, and others. Well, prepare yourself because I’m about to get crazy.

Let’s discuss crazy. Shall we? October is mental health awareness month, as many of you are aware. I kicked October off with a short story, titled The Stranger and released it to certain followers on October 10th, world mental health awareness day. Not by accident. Many will have their own interpretation as to the meaning of that short story. I dislike interpreting my writing for readers, but, and due largely to feedback on that post, I feel this is a time in which I need to clarify some things. First, this short story is about PTSD from rape. All the clues are there for anyone who missed that and thought it was about something entirely different. That said, if you didn’t catch the meaning of the short, that’s okay. Everyone has their own perceptions based on their unique experiences. Maybe it read as a possession or haunting, and that’s accurate as this is how PTSD works. It’s the haunting of an individual from trauma. I don’t want to go into a lot of detail on The Stranger. That’s not the point of this post.

I wrote excerpts from that short story years ago intending them for a novel I was writing. I ended up killing those proverbial darlings and leaving them to languish in a file where all my darlings wait until such time they find their place in another work. A close friend of mine who suffered from a mental disorder committed suicide not too long ago and so, my darlings found a voice as I struggled with his suicide.

Unknown to many, is my personal struggle with PTSD of late resulting from rapes, sexual assaults, a kidnapping attempt, a false imprisonment, my father’s death, and a separation. Those are just the highlights from the last four years. It’s enough to shake even the most solid among us. Many victims of abuse seek me out for help, and in correspondence from readers, I routinely see mention of my strength. You’re bold. Fearless. Tough. A rock. Badass.

That may be true but even the toughest among us are capable of reaching a breaking point and I finally did. A few times, in fact. I have finally reached a point where I’m exiting the circular path of PTSD hell. That’s what I want to discuss. The crazy.

People call me angry. Crazy. Nuts. Unhinged. Delusional. Insane. I rant. I rage. I go off. I do rant. I do go off. But are these terms an appropriate way to describe my character based on nothing more than a few posts in which I’ve had to publicly call out rape, assault, stalking, abuse, and other violent crimes of which I’ve been a victim?

It’s not, and that narrative, that caricature of victims of abuse, only perpetuates rape culture in our society. When you’ve been a victim and lost all sense of identity, security, trust, and hope, all you have left is your voice. Maybe.

Patriarchy wants submissive, feminine women. It establishes that men are entitled to women, entitled to whatever they desire from women, be it a smile, a conversation, their time, their bodies, their existence. So, naturally, when it comes to dealing with the abuse victim, the patriarchy insists that our anger be submissive and pretty. Cute little tears. Sadness that the patriarchy can hug, cuddle, pat on the head, and, hopefully, fuck the trauma out of.

Am I wrong? No. And I’ve had so many messages from men offering just that. You need sex to deal with rape, that’s the only thing that will get you over the rape, and I, random man, am here to heal your wounds. My dick is what will heal you from trauma. You just need my dick.

I see how some of you men operate. Circling social media like vultures, looking for the posts of the crazy woman. You descend on her, viewing her as roadside carnage where some man, who would never be you because you’re a nice guy and you don’t do that shit to women and oh, you even support feminism and make feminist posts because you’re so fucking woke, as you circle another man’s carnage ready to fuck the wounded creature back to mental stability.

You all make me sick. The only thing worse than you vulture types are the women who say dumb shit like, you’re so angry, why do you curse, why do you behave in all these unfeminine ways? Be a lady. You bitches make me sick too.

After you have lost your security, sense of well-being, hope, identity, your power, your space, your foundation, and so much more to sexual violence and/or abuse, the only thing left that wasn’t taken is your voice.

I don’t like any terms that society has pasted onto victims of patriarchal violence. We’re not survivors. We’re victims, yes, true. We’re not crazy. We’re not sick. I’ll tell you why I hate the bullshit terminology used to paint the people who have been preyed upon by those among us who are narcissistic, entitled, predatory, selfish, and demented. These terms erase the last bit of humanity we, the victims, struggle to hold onto in a dark culture that teaches us all that women are trash. Something to use and discard. Commodities. Products. Toys. Cute little adornments.

You wanna call the victims who are raging back, who are reclaiming their identity, who step up and say, this is fucked up and I won’t tolerate it any longer, crazy? Congratulations. You’re perpetuating rape culture and victim shame and blame right along with the rest of society. You’re part of the problem.

Let us rage. Let us be angry. Let us rant. Silencing this rage merely stuffs victims of inequality and violence into a closet where they’re forced to put on a smile and pretend everything’s okay in order to conform to the patriarchal notion of what women should be, pretty little playthings. And fuck you for that. Silencing victims by calling them crazy only further victimizes and prevents those in need of help from seeking that help.

Who the fuck are you to call me crazy? At what point, do I get to be human? To express all that emotion that men are allowed to express? When do I get to exist and not be discarded again and again by the actions of those in society who need me to smile and entertain and be pretty.

Fuck your pretty. Right now, I’m reclaiming all that was taken from me and no one gets to dictate my color palette while I paint myself a new life. If those colors are dark and highlighted with Fucks and Fuck Yous then so fucking be it.

Fuck how society dictates everything a woman must be and then dictates how we do or don’t express our emotions after suffering from trauma. We’re not crazy. We suffer from PTSD and many of us are tough as fuck and we know what it’s like to be haunted by the Stranger and we have fought for every single second of wretched life since that traumatic event and likely will for the remainder of our lives. And it’s not pretty. And we don’t have to make it so in order for society to swallow  the horrible violence we endured. You joke about and long for a woman who can throat your fucking dicks but then want to be a pussy when it comes to deep throating all the ways society has fucked us over and reduced us to your cute little toy. Learn how to take the dick of patriarchy you so love to stroke. I’m not here to coddle and nurture your fragile fucking egos, your bullshit patriarchal superiority, or your need for dominance. You’re gonna swallow this fucking dick and you don’t get to look the other way and spit out my seed of truth. Am I getting this across to you in a language you fucks comprehend?

If you can’t understand that rage and that need to reclaim yourself, that very real fight with the Stranger (PTSD) who seeks only to end you, then your perception comes from a place of privilege or predatory behavior or an assimilation into patriarchal culture. I don’t give a fuck where it comes from to be honest.

We’re not crazy. We’re angry. We’re grieving. We’re healing. And none of that is pretty. It’s raw, it’s bloody, and it’s cruel. I won’t shut up. I won’t coat trauma in lipstick and dress it in a cute little nighty to make you feel okay about violent crimes. Go fuck yourself. Healing isn’t cute. It’s hard work.

Many abuse victims no longer see themselves as human. That rage, that monster that comes out, all these negative terms which are applied to victims of violence (and racism), these terms are meant to assuage your privilege and reaffirm your dominance in the patriarchal society (yes, I’m talking to men, and yes, ALL FUCKING MEN).

Stop. If you’re not actively dismantling the patriarchy then you are benefitting from it and perpetuating its harmful tenets. It’s telling how we talk about victims. That language, the crazy narrative. Victims aren’t crazy. It’s those who are the predators and those among us shielding the predators and defending this bullshit who are crazy.

I’ll rant when the fuck I feel like it and if you want to call me crazy, fine. Truth is, you’re just not ready to deal with the badass bitch who simply refuses to be discarded and keeps coming back to haunt you with the ugly picture of patriarchy and trauma so many of you want to ignore. I’ll wail like a fucking banshee. I’ll keep the ugly, crazy face on your pretty little survivor label because that’s the victim’s journey you jumped over to look the other way to pretend this isn’t a fucking plague for women all around the world.

Here’s to all you crazy bitches. Rant louder ladies. The world still hasn’t heard us and until they do, RANT FUCKING LOUDER and let that crazy fly.

This is an ugly post and the writing is ugly. This is the window to my soul, my voice, and if you don’t like it, then you’re in the wrong genre. I don’t have to adhere to the way patriarchal society has painted me and I’m stripping that canvas and repainting with all the dark, ugly colors of truth you want to protect yourself from in your delusion that women and victims be pretty and nice and sweet. I’m a human being. Not trash. Not a plaything. Not some bitch here to entertain you. I’m not a pretty face and PTSD isn’t pretty. It’s terrifying and dark and unscripted and unedited. You love victims when we’re the proverbial rock and the badass but you want to look the other way when it comes to dealing with how those among us labeled thusly got to that place where you could lavish us with such bullshit terminology.

We’re humans and we experienced the ugliness of trauma and we’re trying to heal and to reclaim the person we were before the predator and the stranger latched on. So stop calling victims who wield the truth, crazy. Stop trying to redress our PTSD in these ridiculous warrior women, barely there, skimpy, pornographic costumes for your gratification so you don’t have to face the global war on women. We’re here in the full battle regalia men are allowed, complete with inconsistent and turbulent emotions, and we’re not going to be silenced. You may take our bodies and our liberties but you don’t get our voices. You don’t get to mandate our healing journey.

So, lets talk about crazy. Really. Let’s get right in that wound, and rip it open and dump in the salt of all your stigmatizing labels. You don’t get to bury your heads and look the other way. We’re done being pretty.

Fuck your survivor label. I’m a woman. And being a woman has never been fucking pretty.