Greetings,

Invasive Ductal Carcinoma of the left breast was my diagnosis in August 2022. The day would forever alter the course of my life. I am writing to you today as a testament to strength, courage, and resilience. Not just for myself, but all those affected by this disease. I write to continue to encourage myself in this literal fight for my life.

I began to write not long after my radiation treatments ended. I had a few poems written and a short story from a few years ago. A relative visiting from out of town happened to mention that She was an editor. At that time, she had a small side business as a proofreader and editor. I couldn’t believe it. I’ve known her all my life and never knew. So I took a chance, a leap of faith some would say. I mentioned, ever so meekly, that “I have written a book.”

She was ecstatic! She had a couple of authors as clients and believed in the power of writing. This made me anxious and excited all at the same time. The next day she shared with me her thoughts and encouraged me to continue writing.

Since that conversation, I started blogging and posting positivity, which helped with the dread I felt inside at times. Writing my thoughts was a much-needed form of therapy. With my diagnosis, treatments, and all that I experienced in 2022 and 2023, I definitely needed a positive outlet. Life had become chaotic and some of my poor decisions made things even harder.

Now that I’ve gone through the storm clouds and darkness, I’m even more grateful for my life. I’m thankful for everyday I’m blessed to see. Living with purpose and the hope of the future and whatever life has in store . My desire now is to spread a message of self-love, peace and light. To take back that which we often lose when dealing with a sickness such as cancer, our autonomy.

Yours Truly,

Hurt and broken
I could not see.
No more taking
only giving.
I’m now the king
loved and adored.
Patient, obscured.
Like a driftwood
Now found ashore.
I’ve left behind
bad parts of me.
Rising above
so found and free.
At a stalemate
I fought myself
at rock bottom.
Now, at the top
we always say,
“Don’t you worry,
yeah we got ’em”.
Experience
built, never bought.
lessons they’ve taught.
From good to bad
and bad to good.
On second thought
although I should,
a favorite
experience
I have not got.
Learn from them all,
That’s what I’s taught.

There were times in my life,
When I really felt like my existence was unimportant, like I was just back ground music while being stuck inside of my own head as I went about my day, in a world where everything was so overwhelming, I screamed inside of the TV, they saw me but laughed & hit the mute button. It was as though nothing was real or even existed, much less mattered.

My life was one giant TV & I was looking straight at my life like a spiraling, emotional roller coaster some might also have watched as a late night soap opera but none of it was real, much less valid.

I was just there unattached as I stand there watching my life & family pass me by at a young age.
I suppose I overlooked a lot of things I don’t even remember.

My dad would curse God & break things.
My mother was indeed a narcissist so these reactions would fire her up & I was the one who took care of her during her darkest hours of addiction.

I was there but was framed a lot from my father. I was called words like “freak” or “retarded” I learned at a young age not to cry out as victim everytime these darkest hours would return to me again.
I was told to silence my feelings unless I had something worth saying so I quit speaking & shut myself down.

There is a lifetime of Hell beneath the surface, so much blood & lava I spilled along the way after I left that place.

I look back at my ashes that I bled now & I saw a mirror & myself & everything that was ever behind me looking right back at me.
I had no choice but to turn around, to travel & face it all over again.
The same trail of blood I just wanted to leave behind, I had no choice but to go back to that place of anguish just to find myself all over again.

I cross paths again of times when I experienced fires so wild,
The smoke was so strong & I had no choice but to leave that past version of myself behind.

As the smoke began to clear I see this little girl crying on the porch steps of a home that is burning, it’s literally on fire but she’s still sitting on the steps, I have so many questions but wonder why she is just sitting there on the porch steps of a home that is falling down into flames behind her.

I watched as the ashes pepper down, surrounding us both I took hold of that little girl & I held onto her as though it was all a strong storm.

I finally held her face in my hands & I saw her tears run down from her blue eyes as we locked eyes.

She could speak again because she finally felt safe within her world of chaos.

She told me that I needed to go back into that burning house & find her mother who is very sick & that it’s up to me to save her.

I go inside to find that her dad is gone & this woman is sitting on the sofa watching the latest soap opera of my life, crosses built with fire & agony covers the walls & I ask her if she is afraid of dying as she lights up another cigarette.

She stares at the TV with judgment in her eyes & she tells me that I can do better.

Everything blows up into flames & it sends me back into a completely different timeline & I was not aware that I even exist in, this is my life now?

I didn’t believe in God up until now… I finally feel alive.

I have created my own path to meet eye to eye with God & what that all even means.

Growing up, I was always a sinner, I was born within a world of sin so without salvation through Jesus Christ I would only burn in hell.

It brought me so many questions & pain as a little kid I would look at the cross on my bedroom wall & pray to God at night that I was good enough & would someday make it into heaven.

Some days I just wanted to die so I could go to heaven & be in a better place.

I detached myself from organised religion all together after going through many dark phases beginning at a young age, younger versions of myself rebuked the thought of God or what it even means to be moving all of these piles of destroyed items aside from what I was raised to believe & finding my own path through spirituality. 🖤🔥

A college graduation ceremony,
The celebration of
Hours and hours spent studying,
Working student janitor jobs,
Barely sleeping or maintaining a social life,
Driven by passion and encouraged by professors and peers.
This a defining moment I haven’t experienced,
My college journey cut short by
A doctor’s visit,
A new orange prescription bottle that felt like a cinderblock in my backpack.
A series of events that I was sure would make everyone see me as
A failure, lazy, without determination.

I moved back into my parents home,
Like a puppy without a treat,
My tail tucked between my legs.
I struggled to find my purpose,
My place in a town I thought I’d left behind.

As fate, or the internet, would have it,
I met someone.
They saw parts of me that I was ashamed of,
And told me how bright they shined.
They laid bare past relationships full of betrayal and heartbreak,
And I held them when they finally gave themselves the space to cry for how they were hurt.
We slow danced in the kitchen,
To old school jazz,
While sweet potatoes cooked in the oven..
And I saw days stretching ahead
With this beautiful being
This other half of my soul.

Wedding bells pealed,
Vows were written and tearfully exchanged.
Families drew together to celebrate,
Dancing ruled the night!
But not for me.
I sat at another wedding reception, thinking of the text message
Telling me things weren’t going to work out.
Another moment I once thought would be so defining,
Slipping away from my grasp.

The more I grow,
The more I discover myself,
The more I lean into even the darkest parts of my mind and heart,
The more I think that my “most defining days” may be made up of simple, quiet moments.
Of the times I have held myself on the bathroom floor,
And through all the loss remind myself
I am worthy of love
And great things are still ahead for me.

To my supervisor:

I wonder how much we remember about each other before formally meeting. Predicting what happens next is less difficult. Working with you at the underfunded rural nursing home every Sunday made sure of that. I can count the times on one hand when I walked onto the floors overflowing with wheelchairs and the malodor of overcooked eggs, and it was not a staff member’s first day. I loved meeting new people, so I never minded.

You knew my hours as an activity assistant were long, but also that I couldn’t just leave when my shifts properly ended. At first, the motivation was to finish up tasks, like charting attendance, wiping up spilled juice, or finding missing puzzle pieces. As time went on, I found myself staying on my own accord. When commuting home, I would give myself a headache thinking of all things I wished I would have done or said. I never knew if or when I would see the residents again. Many were old and received treatments in the adjacent hospital. When one left, it tended to be for good.

Staying late let me provide companionship to the residents, who welcomed me into their family. In the literal sense, they all were family. The nursing home was in a town with more general stores than stoplights. You would know better than anyone. You were once babysat by that husband-wife couple who always threatened to break off their marriage through the paper-thin walls separating their rooms. Other residents worked at the hotel together. Still, some were retired professors, who no doubt passed down notes to my instructors who taught me at the college nearby.

Knowing about the interconnectivity among residents made me want to stay even longer. An aspiring healthcare provider then, it was devastating to witness residents interact with each other one week and then ignore each other the next. Dementia stole their abilities to recognize and remember. There was only so much “Good Old Days” magazine reading I could do to help them know who I was until my efforts became futile too. But it felt impossible to just stop caring. Sunday could never come fast enough. My weeks were preoccupied not with my chemistry homework but with thinking about what our favorite fiery, retired pharmacist would want for her manicure or if the sunroom was spacious enough for all residents to enjoy a magic show.

On occasion, the break room was my retreat. Located off the busiest wing, it provided little reprieve from resident squabbling, therapy dogs barking, and nursing demands. What is did give me was a place to collect myself after noticing a cart with a basket of bananas, water, and a note scrawled with “Processing the death of a loved one” parked in front of an octogenarian’s room. As my shifts went on, I noticed you and other staff members slipping in silently to do the same. The sadness and stressors of it all made us quickly turn from strangers to friends.

You and I grew to share a special bond. Each morning, I would find you shuffling through shelves and writing down learning objectives. Planning and executing the perfect activity were paramount, even if we were the only ones who noticed. I soon understood the sense of purpose and satisfaction your job gave you after you tearfully explained the hard times that you experienced in your financially unstable, misguided younger days. “I just want to own a house for me and my kids,” you said. I would agree as my eyes swelled with tears.

I grew up in a privileged family. My parents’ house large is enough for me and my five siblings to each have our own bedrooms twice over. I attended that well-funded college miles down the road. Working at the nursing home showed me how malleable my life was. When working, I was someone who cared about people who barely knew me and worked alongside people like you whose life experiences were so far removed from mine. But, nowhere else would I have been able to gain the depth of perspectives on the things that really mattered.

I cannot remember my last day working. I always thought I would be back after my spring break, but the COVID-19 pandemic had other plans. However, I do remember the day of my interview, when I toured the community space to the chorus of fifty feet thumping out “When the ants go marching home.” You, even before you became my supervisor, looked up as I entered and grinned widely, never missing a beat.

Now, I stay awake at night thinking of all the stories that not meeting you and everyone at nursing home earlier would ensure would never be told.

In hopes we meet again soon,
Jaya

To whom it may concern,

I was on day three of my binge. By binge, I mean combining: weed, Jack Daniel’s, chocolate bars infused with mushrooms, and sleeping pills. It was an odd combination, but it did the trick. After nine years of drugs and alcohol everyday, my tolerance was higher than I could ever be. In those days I chased that high, that happiness. Everyday I added new ways to make me feel better. If someone approached me with a harder drug, like meth or coke, I’m positive I would’ve done it without question.

I was just fired from a job I loved, being a high functioning addict and alcoholic wasn’t something they signed up for. I was morning a loss when I got fired, which helped fuel the three day binge.

I was living with roommates. I slept in the garage when it was nice. During the binge I stayed in the house because it was winter. I liked the garage at the time, it was my own space. I wasn’t judged for how much I smoked or drank. I got in my roommates way a lot. My problems got in the way a lot.

Day three was New Years Eve. I started early that day, and by night I was drunk and high. Then I ate more of those shroom bars until I was disconnected from reality. But for the first time in nine years, instead of a wave of relief, euphoria, and happiness – I was engulfed with fear, dread, and paranoia. Everything felt wrong. It felt like something bad was about to happen. I was terrified. I thought I was going to die. I ran to the living room panicking, shaking, and screaming, “something is wrong! something is wrong!” But no one was there. My roommates weren’t home. I was alone.

Next thing I knew I was on the ground shaking and convulsing uncontrollably. I felt fear and death weighing me down. I kept my eyes wide open because I was scared of the darkness when I closed them. I didn’t wanna get lost in the dark.

I heard a thousand voices in my head, scary and screaming like demons. I wanted it to stop, begged in my head for them to stop. Only in my head because I couldn’t talk aloud. I couldn’t utter a word. I stayed on the floor internally begging for it all to stop. It kept going. I saw dark shadow figures dancing around me. It made me feel even more sick and scared.

They eventually disappeared and I was still on the floor. I didn’t know what was real and what was a hallucination. The voices were still swirling around me. I felt stuck in this nightmare for eternity, I thought it was never going to end. Then, like a crack of sunlight on a dark and cloudy day, a familiar voice screamed, “STOP. GET UP!” The convulsions stopped.

The command drowned out the demon voices. It shouted again, “GET UP!” I obeyed. I got to my feet and felt for the wall. The room was spinning while I felt my way to the kitchen. I remember drinking some water. I remember throwing up in the sink.

I don’t remember how I got to the couch.

The next thing I do remember was waking up, feeling a wave of relief that I was alive and the dread was gone. The feeling of death holding me down was gone. I felt sick to my stomach but relieved.

In that moment, I thought about everything going on in my life. My personal losses, my friends, the job I lost (didn’t seem too important anymore), my family, the things I’ve done but didn’t want to talk about, I thought about everything. I ultimately decided I never want to feel that kind of fear again. The drugs and alcohol are going to kill me. I decided I didn’t want to die. I decided I didn’t want to live like that anymore.

The days that followed were rough, paranoia laid on me like a weighted blanket. I still felt a demon on me. I moved out of the house and had a mental breakdown because of other traumas and withdraws. I felt low, but I eventually got better.

I think back on the voice that told me to get up. I’m not sure if it was God, a guardian angel, or a version of me I lost years ago; because, the voice sounded like a better version of me. Instead of chasing a high, I started chasing that voice. I wanted to be that person. I wanted to be strong.

A year sober now, I can say I am a lot stronger. Fear can be a motivator. It was the kickstart I needed, but the strength I heard in that voice is what kept me going. The voice that told me to get up.

This is my life, the only person in this world that can really help me is myself.

Listen to that little voice inside your head that warns you, before it’s too late and it’s no longer a whisper but a scream telling you to get up.

It warns, guides, and protects you for a reason. That voice loves you.

To the Unsealed,

Since I was young my family had always moved a lot,
Close or far, just forward, forward, forward,
Always somewhere to go; never somewhere to be,

When I think of childhood, I think of spending summers with friends outside in the grassy fields of Germany,
Exploring cities and admiring buildings older my country, just enjoying the sun for the time it was out,
For the longest time I projected images of the world in my head onto others,
As if I had to force things through the filter of my eyes for them to make sense,
Many experiences brought me into sentience in a way I’ve seen others take for granted,
And I question if I trust myself to say “I know”.

The most recent time my family moved I didn’t follow. For a variety of reasons I decided it was best that I stay, so I planted my feet in Maryland.

As an adult I occasionally reconnect with acquaintances from high school,
I remember listening to their conversations and feeling envious of the way they talk,
The way they are with each other,
All so familiar- to what I had in Germany,

Envy begat curiosity, so I asked how their friendships started. They replied almost confused that I’d even ask that, stating that they’ve “always known each other.” Their parents are friends.
Their home is a family home.

My amorphous feelings took shape in the articulation of my thoughts,
I was able to connect and recognize how little i knew about my own experiences.
I wish I had lifelong friends,
I wish I had a family house,
I wish I had generations of collective experience to fill the spiritual void in my being,
I wish I could’ve known someone my whole life.

I saw it. I understood it. I couldn’t empathize,
All I could do was laugh at the dramatic irony, the things people will take away from life when they don’t share their thoughts with others.

They thought the most interesting about me was that I’ve not spent my life in one place. They expressed their anxieties about living up to their family’s expectations, and being responsible for maintaining the family house well enough to pass it on. They felt suffocated by the looming presence of their families, always fearing that they would “become” their parents.

What I found funny was being told that they kept inviting me to hangout with them because they enjoy the process of getting to know people, and think it’s sometimes more fun than just speaking to someone you already know.

Moving to where I currently am has made my life better because it’s made me more me. Another chapter in the book of my life. I can’t always empathize with other people’s experiences, nor can they with mine, but the ability to share our differing experiences makes you grateful for everything word in your story. Connecting with other people makes life better. Bittersweet and honest.

Nothing quite like it huh..
The darkest before the..?

The City suffocation
met with a hand
asking to dance..

In the yellow jeep—
On the lake house dock—
At the formals and those ‘parties’
In the backyard with the bonfires—
On the top of our lungs.
At the NYC extravaganzas and all those weekend shows

The City of suffocation
met with a hand
asking to dance..

In the Uber—
On the Amtrak—
At the 100s of airports and all those adventures
In the sunshine of JAX—
On the island of Aruba—
At every
‘hey how’ve ya been?!’
but the moreso
‘see ya soon!’

The City suffocation
met with a hand
asking to dance..

In the kitchen—
On the sidewalks of Back Bay—
At the apartment—
that we
once called
Ours.

The City suffocation
met with a hand
that let—
…
…
…go.

In the bedroom.
On the 6th.
At the end—
of my—
world.

Paralyzed.
Numb.
The City suffocation..

A pride check—
A truck ride—
A bridge.
The all ‘too familiars’
welcomed home with a
darkness.

Yet a renewal
out of something..
Broken—
A ‘failure-of-being’
met with a
comeback story.

The ocean—
Mom’s check-in hugs—
Your ‘small town’ self—
Family Sunday dinners—
Where it all began.

Give it a chance..
what’s really left to lose?

Familiar saviors
with the warmth of
our younger selves and
all our innocent soccer days—
met with strangers and a sense of
out of place-gratefulness.

A phoenix in a sense
and of the sorts
of it.
5+ years later.
Look at this fire—
remember this fire
of simple—
yet pure—
and the most genuine—
magic.

The darkest.
Darkness.
Light it all on fire.
Jetty jumps.
Ocean dives.
The unplanned comeback story.

The City suffocation
met with a hand..
this time—of her own—
telling her to
…
…
…dance.

—xoxo
A