letter of intent

I just crawled out of the closet. I was sobbing and trapped in a timewarp. Reliving the pain and screaming moments of agony that I know as my childhood. When I was small and little and no one would listen to me when I begged them to stop.

Never once has anyone listened to me when I pleaded them to stop.

I realized that my sense of worthlessness and my desperate need to be heard and understood is all a reverberating effect of childhood trauma.

of being beaten





it’s why I write. Since I was 6 years old I put pen to paper.

Because my words only matter if they could be seen on paper.

If someone could read them.

My screams and pleads didn’t do shit. But sentences–paragraphs and pages and typhoons of written words somehow caused action.

caused response.


so here I am now. Feeling absolutely worthless. Because no one listened to me my needs.

and I have to accept…no resign to survivable circumstances.

I need to write to breathe.

To exist.

To bleed.



because my flesh is meaningless.

only the letters that swell from my fingertips have any value in this world.

I am nothing but the words you see here now.


TV was my sancutary. It still is. But see the only time no one was fighting was when the TV was on.

He would stop hitting me if the Simpsons were on.

He would focus all his attention onto the television screen.


TV saved me from violence.

TV gave me hope for a future.

There’s always a happy ending…of some sort.

and TV gave me that escape.

TV was my only companion.

TV saw my pain. TV understood.

The characters were pummeled…

prosecuted. Torn to pieces physically or emotionally…whichever.

and yet they were there. People listened.

People watched and believed them.

People believe, even for a moment, in what transpired in those moving images.



and here I am keep hoping that maybe if I finally recognize why I need writing, that maybe my needs and wants and desires and hopes will come true…

i need to be heard.

and seen.

and believed.


not by one or two…

not by you.

but by everyone.


I need the masses to understand that I didn’t make it up.

That I sustained the violence.

That I rose out of the hell hole and rose again and again.

Just to tell my story.


Because you are not alone.

You are not alone.


You may feel like no one cares. No one understands.

But I do. My TV show believes you. I am your partner in crime. Your brother in arms. Your sister in blood and pain.


You holder.

Your keeper.

Your witness.




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