You didn’t send a lightning bolt.
You sent a hospital hallway.
A nurse with tired eyes
and someone I loved barely awake,
murmuring something about leaving through “the other door.”

It wasn’t metaphor.
It wasn’t mystery.
It was certainty
like he knew
the universe had already scheduled the time.

I wanted to bargain.
To scream.
To rip the IVs out of the wall
And say, “Not today. Not yet.”

But then came the message:
not in a dream,
not in a burning bush,
but in his calm face.
A peace I hadn’t seen
since before the surgeries,
before the confusion,
before the quiet fading.

He said, “I’m not afraid.”
And for the first time in months I believed it.

You didn’t rescue me
you redirected me.

When I thought I was losing everything,
you handed me myself.
Told me,
“This is the story you’re going to finish.
This is the pain that will become power.
This is why you’ve carried so much.”

And I knew.
I knew it wasn’t punishment.
It was placement.

So now, when I think of messages from you,
I look up at the stars
And
I remember the hospital bed.
The other door.
And his face already looking somewhere I wasn’t meant to see — not yet.

With love,
Jenny

Have you ever been arrested in front of someone you love? I have—and it’s a moment I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
It was a quiet evening in early spring. I had returned home that morning from an overnight shift driving a cab and had fallen into a deep sleep. Around 7 PM, I woke up to a simple request—to run to the store. Just as I was about to leave, there was a knock at my door. It was my parole officer. A routine visit. But that knock came just hours too late.
Earlier that morning, during my final fare, I picked up someone from my past—an old friend and former drug dealer. As he got into the backseat, he greeted me with familiarity and a casual offer: “If there’s anything you need, I’ve got you.”
I didn’t plan to relapse. I told myself I was stronger now. But as I drove home, the craving took over. I detoured onto his street, circling the block more than once. Eventually, I parked, called him, and went inside. I bought a small bag of meth, telling myself I wouldn’t use it. But that night, I did.
Minutes later, my parole officer arrived. She knew something was off. When she asked if I’d used, I didn’t lie. I handed her the bag. She placed me in handcuffs and led me away—right in front of the one person who had always stood by me.
The tears in her eyes hurt worse than the cuffs around my wrists. Once again, I had broken her heart. That one relapse—worth maybe $40—sent me back to a correctional facility. I was 51 years old, and all I could think about was how I’d failed again. I had left her alone, again. I had promised to be better, to stay clean, to help take care of her as she aged. Instead, I was locked up while she struggled on her own.
About a year into my sentence, she managed to visit me with help from a friend. It was a long journey for her. We sat together, smiling for the camera. That photo is the last one ever taken of us together. Behind her smile, I saw something else—exhaustion, maybe even goodbye.
Not long after, I got a call. She had fallen and broken her wrist. Thankfully, she had the emergency alert system I had insisted on before my arrest. It saved her. She was released from the hospital under the condition that someone help her at home a few times a week. That someone should’ve been me.
Later, she was moved to a nursing facility. I was crushed. She hated doctors, hospitals, anything that made her feel dependent. I applied for a hardship visit to see her, and after a mountain of paperwork and security clearance, I was approved. We spoke on the phone the night before.
She sounded tired. “I’m just waiting for you,” she said softly.
“Get some rest,” I told her. “I’ll see you soon.”
Those were the last words she ever heard from me.
At 2:35 AM, I woke in a panic. My body shook uncontrollably, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I thought maybe it was just nerves about the visit. I got ready anyway.
At 6 AM, I heard my name over the intercom. I was called to the warden’s office. There, they told me she had passed away in her sleep—just after 2:30 AM. Alone.
I missed her by hours.
Even now, I can’t fully explain the weight of that moment. She had been holding on, just to see me. She had stayed awake, worried, consumed by fear that she wouldn’t live long enough to hug me one last time.
And she didn’t.
Addiction had already taken so much from me—my marriage, my health, my freedom. But losing her that way took something deeper. My chance at closure. My chance to be there when she needed me most.
Her death changed me. I knew I couldn’t keep living in that cycle of destruction. It was time to make her proud, even if it was too late for apologies.
Today, I’ve been clean for eleven years. Recovery is never a straight road. It’s messy. It’s full of moments like 2:30 AM panic attacks and long nights of remembering who I used to be. But I hold onto the lessons she left behind. Her strength. Her kindness. Her refusal to give up on me, even when I gave up on myself.
That last photo of us still sits on my dresser. A reminder of the one person who believed in me, who never stopped hoping I would find my way back. I couldn’t be there to say goodbye—but I can live every day in a way that honors her love.
She waited for me. Now I carry her spirit with me—through every hard day, every choice to stay clean, and every effort I make to help someone else out of the darkness.
Because I know the cost of waiting too long.

My life probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer if it weren’t for that day in a Skipper’s bathroom. I had made a promise to a few very confused and fragile little hearts a while back that were desperate for understanding about why I was gone and why their worlds had to be flipped upside down so abruptly. I was at war with myself, and the odds were not in my favor. Addiction, self-destruction, homelessness, poor mental health, and trauma had all been blended into a damn near lethal cocktail and I was grossly over-served.

The day I found out that I was deemed unfit to be a parent by some random lady with a clipboard, my will to live went out the door with all their smug ass faces. I immediately began my descent to rock bottom, and I didn’t miss a beat. Less than six months later, I found myself a wanderer, with no home, no destination, no job, no sanity, no nothing.

I remember when he told me he was moving them away. By this time I had been running around with some bad people and I had been doing bad things, and I didn’t talk to the good people much anymore because I had nothing to report that they would want to hear. Nothing that would do anything other than hurt them more. When he told me they were leaving though, I swear I literally felt my heart drop down into my stomach. Shortly after, I had one more chance to see them, and then they were off to start their lives somewhere else, where I would certainly be forgotten. I did my best to give them anything I could to make up for the time we had lost. I over-compensated with exaggerated enthusiasm, talking like I was mom-of-the-year and not just the junkie hooker I had actually become. I had to though. Otherwise I might risk breaking, and if that were to happen even a little bit, then certainly everything would come pouring out like a fucking geyser, and that couldn’t be how they remembered me. It started out okay, but then it was time to say goodbye.

Have you ever had those tears that are so intense that it is literally painful when they start falling? Where something goes so far beyond pain that even releasing it causes more suffering? With everything in me, I tried to keep a steady voice, and I told my girls, “I will be back for you. I promise.” When they left that day I cried those painful tears for a long time.

As it usually does, time went on, and I was so fucking broken that I couldn’t find it in myself to muster up the strength to make the change. Instead I did everything I could to numb it all because it was too much to bear, but I hadn’t even considered the fact that it hurt them just as much. I was a loser. A drug addict. A dead beat. Who would want that for a mom? So I dove deeper into my self-sabotage, and it wasn’t until that afternoon in a public restroom that my life changed at all for the better.

The younger two that had moved away made a visit to town with their dad, and that meant that they got to come and have lunch with mom. I felt pretty much equal parts nervous, excited, terrified, elated, and just all around crazed. Every so often I had been allowed to see them, but it was always really short, incredibly depressing, and I can pretty much guarantee super disappointing on their end. This time was different though. We finished up lunch and my youngest needed mommy’s help going to the bathroom. I followed her in, but her demeanor held something I had never seen before. She turned to face me and I could see that she was trying her absolute hardest to choke back tears. She looked at me, and with everything in her, she tried to keep her voice steady and said, “Mommy, you’re not coming back for us are you?”

My heart broke, Shattered. Right there all over the floor. Here was this tiny little girl who lost her mommy and didn’t understand why. Because I was right here. I immediately dropped to my knees and held her and made her another promise that I knew I had to see through. I promised her I was going to get my shit together. I was going to do everything I could to be her mommy again.

It wasn’t long after that that I finally admitted myself into rehab. I spent sixty days beginning to understand who I am and what that all means. Now, as we speak, that same little girl is sleeping in the room next to me in our apartment as she does several nights a week.She may not know it, but she is a large part of the reason that I am here today. All three of them are my motivation to keep going every day, but I never realized until I saw a little girl trying so hard to be so strong that my presence mattered as much as it does. She was my sign.

I still struggle daily with addiction. I am still working on figuring out why my brain works the way it does, and I am probably going to spend forever unlearning a lot of toxic behaviors. I am far from healed, and I know that. But it was that day I finally realized that I had to start trying. For me and for them.

Style Score 67%

Dear Universe,
I found out this week that I inherited my dad’s gene, a Mediterranean, Italian, anemia called Thalassemia. I knew when I saw my blood work that I had that. Then I concurred with Microsoft Copilot and my doctor about the high WBC count, low MCHC count, and higher glucose count that my dad left me with a gift. I wrote a song and a story about my dad this week. It was as if the universe was telling me about something. I am okay with that because I love my dad so much, and I can deal with that. My Dad died of the advanced form of Thalassemia, leukemia in 1997. I thank the universe for helping me through this journey. Another sign from the universe was the golden monarch butterflies that would follow me around the apartment complex before I found out about my bloodwork. As an empath, I feel deeply about watching for signs and to not brush them away. Thank you, universe, creator of our life, the earth, and the stars, moon, & sun.
So, I authored a poem about my dad and our relationship as Big Vic and Little Vic.

Dear Universe,
You did not whisper.
You roared
through a Johnny Cash song on a dusty radio,
through a gene I did not know I carried,
through grief that still echoes
off courthouse, stone in downtown LA.
That day in 1989,
he sat beside me,
my dad, the man who could feel a busted carburetor
the way a healer feels pain through skin.
We cried on those steps,
not out of weakness,
but because love sometimes shatters open in public.
I didn’t know then
that he’d passed me more than his hands or his humor,
but a blueprint in my blood.
That piece by piece,
the man who once guided me through divorce
and engine noise
and the ache of not knowing what comes next
was still guiding me.
So, I’ve picked up the song.
And I write,
not just to remember him,
but to answer back.
I hear you loud and clear, universe.
I honor him.
And I am building
still
with the music of legacy
in my chest.
With all I am,
His Daughter in Drive and Flame
Vicki Lawana Trusselli
Little Vic

Edited with ProWritingAid improvements 100%, Goals 94%

I pray often
Not over zealous
Not on my knees
But I’ll clasp my hands and G-d and I will have a talk
We talk like old friends that don’t get to see each other often
I don’t expect G-d to change anything, because I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul
But I ask for His company while I figure shit out
I try not to ask for favors because I don’t want our relationship to be transactional
But I do ask for guidance every once in awhile
It was late one night and I drove to my great grandmother’s house
It sold on my nineteenth birthday
The new owners painted it white with black shingles
They removed the shutters and tore up the garden that once bloomed roses and marigolds
I used to tend to those flowers
My mother did the same when she was little
My grandmother was the one that planted them

My aunt lived with my great grandmother until she died
My aunt was deeply religious
I parked on the curb
“Hey Auntie,” my hands were clasped above the steering wheel
For a moment I felt like my mother whenever she left my biological father for the last time

She put me in the backseat while he was screaming at her
She grabbed everything that was hers in the middle of the night
And drove
And never looked back once
She said she prayed then but after years of life and logic, she couldn’t believe in anything anymore

I believe people were created for express purposes that we can’t see yet
I think some people are born knowing what they are meant to do
Others find it along the way
I think I knew early on that I had a gift for words, just like my partner who strings together metaphors like pearls
After each flowery description he ties a knot behind it to fix it in place before moving onto the next
I think things like that are completely and utterly holy

“Hey Auntie,” I was crying at this point
“Auntie, I feel crazy for saying this but… I care for this guy… I’ve known him for a month, but there’s something between us
Whatever it is it’s real
It’s the strongest thing I have ever felt before
I’m terrified by it as I’m excited about it
I don’t believe in things like love at first sight
I’ve never been that lucky
It’s been heartache after heartache
I’m taking my time this time
But from the moment…”

My aunt was a saint in modern form
A reformed sinner, turned angel
Eventually turned to dust by sickness and time
She loved the rain
You’d hear a storm start to roll in and she’d be the first to walk outside and admire the way it darkened everything
She always talked about beauty inside dark things like rain and rough weather
Despite how much she loved rain it was sunny at her funeral

I realized what I was meant to do because of her
My folks say I was born to write
And it’s true that I think I’m good at it
But my purpose on the Earth more than anything else is to love
I want to love and love and love until I’m done to dust
I want to make others know that there is someone in this world that hears them
That someone, despite everything, will care
I’m a big fan of love, being in love and making others feel loved
When I go, whenever that may be
I’ll go gently into that good night if I have the assurance that someone at some point knew I loved them fervently, adamantly and sincerely
I want to take care of people
It’s what I’m meant to do

A part of me is still sitting on the park bench after my first date with my partner
A part of me is always going to be on that park bench
I think when two people open up in that way
When they take a hammer and crack their breastplates open for someone to pick through and analyze
The other person always keeps a small piece

My partner walked back to his car after he walked me to the front door. Our first date concluded, and the rest of our relationship began.
I closed the front door, locked it and immediately dropped to my knees
Clasped my hands
And whispered, “Thank you G-d! Thank you G-d!”

“Auntie,” I was gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles were white
“Just tell me that I’m not crazy
Tell me that this is real
Show me a sign
Show me that this is real
Show me that this is good.”

And remarkably…
It began to rain
And that was all I needed.

Remembering a time when I was young,
When climbing trees was so much fun.
For my Dad moved out of city, into the sticks-
As a kid I cared not, but me thinks God had me picked.
Anyway one day-came out my Uncle and Aunt
So exciting it was, to show off climbing trees like that…
Thought it was easy-but first one I went too,
Shimmied up and broke the branch-that I held unto.
Ouch’ I fell down straight on my back,
Embarrassed as I was…I did not like that!
Yes-on a small stump I fell…
Back bruised for show and tell.

Then I was 18, like it was yesterday-
I did the same thing, except jumped out of the tree…
The crowd saw me fall-but not on soft clay.
Yes Again…On a stump I fell-If I would have died that night…
I would of went straight to hell 🙁

But God spared, though I could not care-
3 broken vertebras 6 ribs through my lungs…
Drown in mine own blood unaware.
Electric charge to restart my heart-
3 times they tried with life support start,
And continued running while in my coma
I was in space by my self with deaths’ aroma.
I could see heaven and I could see earth,
But stuck with the stars-dark night was my birth.
Nowhere could I go-in the middle of nowhere I know
Dumbfounded the show, where was the show?
I could leave this place when I awake to go…
But I did wake up eventually-just still could not see,
All of what outer space simply had for me…
Yes still at will-not a damn thing,
But that’s ok-God again helped me escape!

Years more gone by-in Cleveland crack house,
In came the raid-to city jail we went out.
But O’ in the police car, I thought not far-
Had the bag of ectasy in my underwear pocket for me…
But did they check for drugs in there? I want not to see.
So down rolled the window thank you dear cop
And I threw out the bag-after swallowing a lot.
Once again, when will it end-in outer space to star-talking friends.
Hugging the concrete poles so much,
Was this all of it, the coma toast of love?

Well I’ve not been back there ever since
But has God a purpose for me, holding in suspense?
I think He may for there’s plenty of days-
So close to death again I so often came.
So my will just simply assume
back into the hole I so often fell into…
For me to jump back in and help others out-
There’s always plenty of room!

Creation speaks, outer space speaks,
Mother Nature speaks the same-
While God’s talking, I hear His voice…
Calling me the very same!
Thank You God, through Doctors and Nurses-
That You let me live and not to bad to worsen!
Now You help me heal through the process,
Of providing everything for me that’s costless!

I belong to You and I know Your beautiful voice-
Many rushing mighty waters-to listen I have no choice!
Yes thank You for speaking to me…
In Your blessed paradise-
My home of eternity…
From the dope house, to the Church house-
You have faithfully brought me!!!
🙂 🙂 🙂