I'm Tired

I'm just tired of being broke all the time. To be honest, I'm just tired of everything. Tired of having nothing, tired of having to struggle, tired of no one listening. You know, if the court had listened when I was a kid, three other kids wouldn't have been molested. If that young soldier had listened to me, we would have avoided the tragic suicide I had to witness. If Christina had listened to me, she wouldn't have been raped by those guys at the bar. And if Denton had listened to me, I wouldn't have lost everything again.

It's like I'm always shouting into the void, and no one cares enough to hear. This constant battle against an uncaring world has wore me down. I wake up every day feeling like I'm just existing, not living. It feels like the weight of every bad decision, every ignored warning, and every missed opportunity is crushing me.

I think about all the times I've tried to warn people, tried to make them see what was coming. But it's like I'm invisible, my voice unheard. If people just took a moment to listen, so much pain could have been avoided. But here I am, left to pick up the pieces of a life shaped by others' fucked up agendas and my own misfortune.

I'm tired of the struggle. Every day feels like a fight for survival, and it's exhausting. It’s not just about being broke; it's about the emotional and mental toll of constantly trying to keep my head above water. No one really sees how deep the struggle goes. They see a man trying to make it through the day, but they don't see the inner battles, the scars that aren't visible.

If only people had listened, things could have been so different. Maybe I wouldn't feel so alone, so defeated. Maybe I could finally find some peace and start healing from all the past wounds. But for now, it feels like I'm trapped in this endless cycle of pain and frustration. And I'm just so damn tired of it all.

I'm at a point now where all the planning is done. I've figured out the how and the what; the only thing left is the when. I can't say for sure if there's still a small tank sliver of hope left inside me or if I'm just too scared to follow through. Every day, I find myself wondering why I haven't done it yet. Maybe some part of me is holding on, hoping that things will change, or maybe it's the fear of the unknown that keeps me from taking that final step. Each morning I wake up and ask myself the same question: what's stopping me?

---

I lied

I lied. I do have something to say. I hate you, world! I really do. I never did anything to you to warrant the treatment I've gotten. Now I sit here staring the end right in the face, realizing just how sad it is that some people you see in your own mind—you know it's the last time you'll ever see them again. It's a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that those faces, those memories, are all you have left.

This whole time, I've tried to get people to hate me to make it easier for them, but it's not the way it should be. They don't need to hate me because I hate the world, almost every bit of it. The world, with its endless cruelty and unfairness, has pushed me to this point. I've been through hell and back, and for what? To be left alone with my thoughts, haunted by the ghosts of my past, and tormented by the memories of a future that could have been.

I look back at the people I've met along the way, those who have come and gone, leaving their mark on my life. Some were kind, some were indifferent, and others were outright cruel. But in the end, none of it seems to matter. The world has taken its toll on me, and I've become a shadow of the person I once was.

Don't get me wrong, there are a few people who stand out that I don't hate; they're like diamonds in the rough. They shine brightly in a world filled with darkness and despair. They are the ones who have shown me kindness, even when I didn't deserve it. But their light is not enough to dispel the shadows that surround me. Their presence is a small comfort in a sea of misery.

I wonder if things could have been different if I had made different choices or if the world had been a little kinder. But it's too late for that now. The damage is done, and there's no going back. All I can do is wait for the end and hope that, somehow, in some small way, my suffering will not have been in vain.

It's Time!

Nothing Left To Say! 

I Will Miss Curtis

Curtis had given up on life. He lost the will to live, and the straw that broke the camel's back was Denton County, Texas. They persecuted him without asking a single question, automatically assuming his guilt. He was jailed and fined, paying exorbitant amounts just to stay out of jail. Curtis was more of a modern-day Quaker, firmly against violence. He couldn't even spank his own children when they were growing up. He never raised his hand in anger, except for the occasional school bully during his high school years.

Growing up as a Marine Corps brat, Curtis moved around a lot and encountered his fair share of bullies. It was hard to believe that someone who had been hurt and beaten down so much could still refuse to bring harm to anyone. Curtis's aversion to violence stemmed from deep personal trauma. As a child, he was sexually assaulted. When he tried to do the right thing and went to the police, the man was arrested. However, the judge believed the assailant's seemingly sincere apology and only gave him probation.

While on probation, the man moved on to victimize three other children. This time, the court didn't go easy on him. Each of the kids' cases resulted in a 15-year sentence, to be served consecutively. He had to serve 30 years before being eligible for parole.

So why did Curtis not have a voice? Why is it that when something happened to Curtis, the man only got probation, while everyone else received years on their sentences? Did Curtis not matter? Did his voice not resonate with anybody? 

That event made Curtis wander through life, trying to prove his manhood because he felt like it was stripped from him. And if he wasn't trying to prove his manhood, he was trying to prove his innocence. Either way you look at it, his life at a young age became a roller coaster. It caused him to dislike authority figures. The judicial system let him down. He had noone to count on. He felt like no one was on his side.

Curtis's life was a constant battle, not just with the external world but with his inner demons as well. Despite all the pain and suffering he endured, he never let it turn him into someone who could harm another. His story is one of relentless persecution and unwavering resolve.

As if Curtis's life hadn't been hard enough with his childhood trauma, more pain found him in the military. One evening, while pulling duty, a young soldier approached him, visibly distraught. The soldier's eyes were red, and his shoulders slumped with the weight of his troubles. He had been subjected to relentless hazing by his fellow comrades for falling out of the runs-a cardinal sin in an airborne unit, where physical endurance was paramount. The young soldier's spirit was broken, and he was teetering on the edge of despair.

That night was long, filled with anxious thoughts about how to help the soldier. Curtis was hoping that tomorrow would bring some relief for the young man. But the following morning brought a horror that would be etched into Curtis's memory forever..

As the morning sun began to rise, casting a pale light over the base, Curtis prepared to meet the First Sergeant. Curtis walked  in silence, the weight of the soldier's troubles heavy in the air. Just as he reached the 2nd floor, the young soldier was in the room in front of him. Curtis looked at him, concern etched on his face, but before he could utter a word, the soldier reached for his M16.

Time seemed to slow as Curtis watched in helpless terror. The young man, unable to bear his pain any longer, raised the rifle and ended his suffering right before Curtis's eyes. The sound of the gunshot echoed in the still morning air, a violent punctuation to the soldier's torment.

Curtis was frozen, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The blood, the lifeless body, the unbearable weight of witnessing such a tragic end-it was all too much. That morning, that singular moment, seared itself into Curtis's mind, becoming a permanent scar on his soul.

The aftermath was a blur of military procedures, questions, and formalities. But for Curtis, the real struggle had just begun. The image of the young soldier's final act haunted him, a relentless specter that would follow him long after his military service ended. It was a wound that would never fully heal.

Curtis went on through life as a product of the pain and suffering he had endured. The military event left a deep scar, but Curtis always gave of himself to ensure no one else struggled or got upset because of him. He'd give his last coins, share his last bit of food, and offer himself time and again, only to have more stripped from him when he wasn't looking. 

He cried out for help in the military but received none. As a kid, his pleas were ignored, and now, dealing with the situation with a girl from Venezuela, his calls for help to numerous cities, police agencies, immigration, and even Homeland Security went unanswered. Why does he not have a voice? Why does he not matter? Why is he society's punching bag?

Now, he's facing charges of stalking, even though his ex-girlfriend's affidavit is filled with lies. Rumors spread that he was a woman beater, and the community he helped and tried to keep safe turned on him. They threatened his life on several occasions and even pulled a weapon on him, yet nothing was done to the woman who did it. She went unpunished, and Curtis lost his home yet again.

Curtis, unable to take it anymore, wandered off into the streets, a heavy weight on his shoulders and a profound emptiness in his heart. He knew he wouldn't return, and deep down, he accepted that his journey was coming to an end. He took enough alcohol with him to ease his nerves for what he intended to do, feeling a twisted sense of relief wash over him.

The streets were eerily quiet as Curtis walked, each step feeling like a final goodbye to a world that had given him more pain than solace. Не found a sec

luded spot, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts one last time. The memories of his struggles played like a haunting film in his mind the cries for help in the military that went unanswered, the childhood pleas that were ignored, and the recent betrayal that had shattered his already fragile spirit.

With a trembling hand, Curtis took out the fentanyl he had carried with him. He had enough to end it all, and the thought brought him a bitter sense of peace. As he prepared for the final act, he took a swig of alcohol, feeling it burn down his throat and momentarily dull his senses. He thought of the community that had turned on him, the lies that had ruined his reputation, and the hopelessness that had engulfed his life.

No one would check on him, he knew that. No one would come to his rescue, just as they hadn't in the past. Curtis closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face as he whispered a silent goodbye to the world that had been so cruel to him. In the quiet of the night, with no one around to witness his final moments, he ended his own pain, his lifeless body a testament to the silent suffering he had endured.

The Will To Survive

Well, journal, I was in court the other day dealing with more of this bullshit with Antonella. That's a story for another time. She's becoming a part of my past, and soon she'll just be somebody I knew instead of someone I know. It's a good thing she's taught me what to avoid in life, what to shield myself and my friends from. She's the epitome of evil and manipulation. 

This week in court, I heard a real survivor's testimony. A woman shared her story before her husband was sentenced for abusing her. My ex tried to paint me as an abuser, but I know now that I'm not. Yes, I got angry and said some hateful things, but it wasn't repetitive. It happened when I was cheated on, when we were supposed to get married and have children. Should I have yelled and screamed like I did? No. But does that make me an abuser? Not at all.

Ironically, this insight came from a shelter where she claimed to be a victim of domestic violence. Now, I go there to learn about what she's done to me and who the real abuser is. It's a shame that when women make accusations, it's often taken as gospel, but when men stand up and say something, no one gives a shit. No one cares about the pain we go throu

gh or the struggle to keep going each day without ending the misery.

If anyone reads this, I hope they find one person who can truthfully say I've been physically abusive. I couldn't even spank my own children, or engage in horseplay during sex as my ex wanted, because of my past trauma. If I can't pretend to be abusive during sex role-playing, why would anyone think I could do it in real life?

I've lost the will to live, and I'm not sure what to do next. Losing the will to live doesn't mean you're suicidal; it just means you don't feel like doing anything to sustain it.

Just because I've lost the will to live does not mean that I want to kill myself or commit suicide, whatever you want to call it. I'm in a place where life's challenges and pain have drained my energy and motivation, making it hard to find joy or purpose. However, this feeling doesn't translate to a desire to end my life. It's more about struggling to find meaning and direction, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of my experiences. I still have hope that things can improve and that I can find a way to cope and thrive despite the difficulties.

I'm just tired of not having a voice. When I was violated as a child, the court didn't listen to me. They let him get away with probation, and then he victimized three other children after me. They got serious punishments for their cases, but not for me. And when I was in the military and saw that young soldier end his life right in front of me, I tried to cry out for help, to tell them I was struggling, that I was dying inside, but no one listened.

Or when some lady came and said that I was the father of her child. I tried to tell them I was not, didn't even know her, but they didn't believe me. They tried to garnish my wages, made me miss work. It turned out this kid was 99.9% not mine. The only thing we had in common was that we were male and human.

And what about all the time with Antonella? I've tried reaching out to various cities and law enforcement agencies, even immigration and Homeland Security. Even with this crap with the girl upstairs accusing me of being a woman beater, threatening my life, and brandishing a weapon, nothing happened to her either. Why? Why don't I deserve to be listened to? What have I done so heinous in life that my voice is muffled or muted? Why does Curtis not matter?

Yet, people will simply call authorities and tell them when I've gotten suicidal, and they send them in for a welfare check to try to lock me up and save me. Why? Why can't you pick up the phone instead of calling the authorities? Call me and tell me how you're doing, ask how I'm doing. It's funny how you can waste the energy calling law enforcement, but you can't spend a fraction of that energy to shoot me a text or call me just to see how I'm doing, say hi, or that you love me.

There's going to come a day when you'll never get a chance to ask how I'm doing or hear my voice, but I really don't think that'll matter if something were to happen to me. I think it would be just a very short amount of time, and I would be a thing of the past. Someone who just didn't matter, who took up oxygen and wasted space that someone else could have used.

Despite all this, I hold on because I believe healing is possible. It's not easy, and it's often painful, but I keep going. Not because I want to, but because I need to. Because deep down, I know my voice does matter, even if it's only to me. And maybe, just maybe, one day it will matter to someone else too.

You need to hate me!

You need to hate me! Hate me like everyone else does. It will help reduce the pain of knowing me, making it easier for you to walk away when the time comes. If you don't hate me now, you will eventually, or at least you'll want to. Building that wall of hate will create a distance that shields you from the hurt. Trust me, it's better this way. You'll find it easier to move on if you see me through the lens of disdain. It will prevent you from getting too close, from caring too much, and from being hurt by my inevitable failures and flaws. I'm not worth the emotional investment, and hating me will save you from future heartbreak.

So, start now. Let the resentment grow. It will be your armor, protecting you from the pain of being connected to someone like me. I am a storm, unpredictable and destructive, and being close to me means you'll get caught in the chaos. The more you care, the more it will hurt when things fall apart. And they will, because I am not capable of maintaining the stability you deserve. 

Every relationship I've had has ended in disappointment and pain. It's a pattern I can't seem to break, and I don't want you to be another casualty of my chaos. If you hate me, you can detach yourself from the emotional wreckage. You won't be weighed down by the expectations and the inevitable letdowns. 

I know it sounds harsh, but it's the truth. Hating me will protect you. It will give you the strength to put up boundaries and not let my darkness seep into your life. You deserve better, and by hating me, you can focus on finding someone who can give you what I cannot. So go ahead, let the hatred build. It will be your shield against the pain of knowing me.

I Rise Anew

After all these years, the hatred rages on,

Anger and rage, a relentless dawn.

The scars run deep, the pain still near,

In the shadows of memories, the ghosts appear.

I've walked through fire, faced many storm,

A heart that's weathered, barely even warm.

The rage within, a roaring sea,

But will learn, you woke the anger in me.

Through every trial, every tear,

I've joined my demons, welcomed fear.

This anger burns, I rise anew,

A testament to the pain you grew.

After all these years, the fight begins,

And with each struggle, anger gains.

For in the hate, I've found my way,

A vengeful spirit, here to stay.

I Turned

I've lived my life with steady hands,

Not one raised in anger's demands.

From school bullies in days gone by,

To all I've met, my peace would tie.

No one here can say they've seen,

My wrath, my fury, or my mean.

But dawn has brought a darker thought,

A hurt so deep, my soul has fought.

For the first time, I feel this fire,

A burning rage, a fierce desire.

To break, to hurt, to see them bleed,

To watch them suffer, meet my need.

Yet in this storm, I seek a way,

To turn the night back into day.

To heal the wounds that pain has borne,

And find my way through anger's thorn.

I'll grasp the tools, the strength to bend,

And on this path, I'll find my end.

For in my heart, I still believe,

That healing comes when we don't grieve.

Though anger knocks, I will transcend,

And choose to heal, my heart to mend.

For though I feel this fire within,

I'll rise above, let peace begin.

Why

Journal Entry

Well, journal, I know what it's like to suffer. I know what it's like to struggle. I know what it's like to do without. I damn sure know what it's like to be alone. I just don't understand why. I've never gone out of my way to take from somebody, and I've never raised a hand in anger to anyone. Yet, I'm cast as this monster. The only difference between me and Frankenstein is I'm not made of different people. I'm me—I'm Curtis. 

And sure, people aren't hunting me down with pitchforks, but I've got neighbors who are scared of me and threatening to shoot me because I'm supposed to be a woman-beater. I just don't know why. There are a lot of things I don't know why about. Why did I have to be violated as a child? Why did I have to be made to believe I was a bad kid growing up? Why did that young soldier have to end his life in front of me or anyone else? Why am I plagued with thoughts of self-harm? 

There are so many questions I have that go unanswered. I see people running around enjoying life when all I want to do is get rid of mine. Why can't I get a do-over? Why can't I go more than 24 hours without shedding tears?

I've gone 53 years of my life, and the other day, for the first time, I woke up wanting to hurt somebody. Not just break their heart, but break their bones, break their skin, completely break them to make them feel the pain I've gone through. I've lost it all again. I lost my home. I struggled at first being there alone, but I was getting over it. 

And then a woman I loved with every fiber of my being had to ruin it all with lies. The only way I would have hurt her was by smothering her with love. She knows I wouldn't hurt her. She asked me to be rough in the bedroom, and I couldn't do it, so why would I do it just for the hell of it?

Understanding the Misjudgment of Those Who Avoid Physical Violence

There are individuals who have never raised their hands in anger towards anyone. Yes, they may appear angry or scary, but this is often a tactic to keep others at a distance, to avoid conflict. We don't want to engage in physical altercations or ugliness. Yet, despite this, we can still be blamed for fitting someone else's narrative, without consideration for the ripple effects that can cause us immense pain.

Before meeting Antonella, I was battling addiction, homelessness, depression, and suicidal thoughts. She presented herself as my partner, my ride-or-die. But the truth was she was manipulating the system for her gain, whether it was citizenship, shelter, or something else. Yes, I yelled, I screamed, and I cussed, but we were supposed to get married and have children. Instead, she cheated on me with a co-worker, spilling details about me and my struggles to him.

If anyone else had faced the same provocations, especially some people I know, they might have responded violently. But I didn't. I turned my frustration inward. All I did was yell and scream. In response, Antonella started driving erratically, endangering both our lives and the lives of others on the road. To try and calm the situation, I took her wallet and phone, knowing their importance to her, hoping she would drive more safely. She saw this as an opportunity to accuse me of domestic violence.

She tried to press charges in multiple counties and cities, but it wasn’t until a female detective got involved that anything stuck. It took five or six death threats before I forwarded one to her, asking if this was what her family was capable of. That was the basis for the indictment against me. Rumors spread that I was a woman-beater, a stalker, a freak. My community turned against me. Women became scared.

Just recently, during an intimate moment with a new partner, the woman upstairs, already paranoid due to the rumors, called the police, thinking I was harming someone. My partner had to explain it was her cries of pleasure, not pain. Yet, I was still targeted, receiving multiple death threats and racial slurs, with no intervention from authorities.

Now, I understand. The world has no use for me, and I have no use for it. If being a part of it means becoming ugly like the world itself, I want no part of it. I've begun planning my own end, to stop the pain and suffering. I'm just waiting for the right time, putting everything in order. This filthy, nasty world can have itself because I know I don't have a voice. No one listens, no one cares, and they never will.

Oh Ashley!

Oh Ashley, once I thought you the dream,  

A beacon of desire with integrity gleamed.  

You spoke of children, of desire so deep,  

A promise of forever, of secrets to keep.

Yet as days unfurled, the truth was revealed,  

Your ruse a shadow, your heart concealed.  

I ignored the whispers, brushed off the disdain,  

Believing your lies, though their truth was plain.

Listening to you, I shunned the wise,  

Good souls you twisted, masked by your guise.  

Innocent hearts turned hard and cold,  

By actions of yours, so cruel and bold.

Nastiest and meanest, your true colors show,  

A master of deceit, in darkness you grow.  

No longer the dream, but a nightmare profound,  

A friend turned stranger, lost and unfound.

The Shock

It was a day that's etched in my memory like a tattoo, one where I witnessed a gut-wrenching tragedy unfold before my eyes. I never saw it coming, never anticipated the heaviness that would settle in my chest.

There was this young soldier, frustration oozing from every pore, coming to me with his struggles. He couldn't keep up with the runs, a crucial requirement in our airborne unit. Falling behind during PT was not just a matter of fitness; it was a point of pride and a test of one's dedication to the unit. Yet, instead of support, he faced ridicule, teasing, and outright bullying from his peers. It was relentless, a barrage of taunts and jibes that chipped away at his confidence with each passing day. Despite his efforts to push through, the weight of their scorn was crushing, threatening to extinguish his spirit altogether.

I tried to be tough, gave him the whole "put on your big boy pants" spiel, even though I could see the tears welling up. Promised him we'd sort it out with the first sergeant the next day, sent him off to get ready for what lay ahead.

As I entered the dimly lit stairwell on the second floor, the door to the stairwell was adjacent to his room, its door wide open. There, in my line of sight, sat the young soldier, his figure illuminated by the soft glow from within his room. It was as if fate had led me there, to witness the unfolding tragedy in real-time. The proximity struck me; I could almost feel the weight of his anguish permeating the air, a silent plea for someone to intervene before it was too late.

The bang reverberated, shaking me to my core. The heavy air suffocated me, and silence became deafening, shrouding the lifeless figure on the floor. The walls bore witness to the despair that had unfolded, a sight that seared into my soul.

The room stood frozen in time, yet the shockwaves of the tragedy still pulsed through the air. Tears streamed down my face as I grappled with the helplessness of the moment. Time seemed to halt, trapping me in a nightmare.

I couldn't wrap my head around the pain that led to this moment. It haunted me, left me questioning every decision. If only I had listened, if only I had shown more compassion. The guilt weighed heavy on my shoulders.

But amidst the grief and guilt, there was a lesson. It taught me the importance of reaching out to those battling their demons, of being a beacon of light in their darkest hours. It reminded me of the fragility of life and the ripple effect of one person's pain.

Moving forward, I carry the hope that sharing my experience can raise awareness about mental health and the need for compassion. We must be there for each other, guiding through the stormy seas, ensuring that no one feels as alone as I did on that fateful day.

The aftermath of that tragic day left scars that still haunt me, exacerbating my PTSD and amplifying my struggles to this very day. It's a burden I carry, a weight that never seems to lift. The memories, like ghosts, linger in the recesses of my mind, resurfacing in unexpected moments, triggering waves of anguish and despair. Sleepless nights are a constant companion, haunted by night terrors so vivid they feel like a cruel form of reality. There are times I wake up and can still smell and taste everything that took place that day, as if I'm reliving it all over again.

But perhaps the most harrowing aspect of it all is the relentless echo of the gunshot, reverberating in my ears as if time has looped back to that moment of horror. Loud noises and sudden movements have become triggers, capable of shattering the fragile facade of composure I struggle to maintain. They break me down, reducing me to a trembling mess, grappling with the suffocating grip of panic and fear.

Yet, amidst the darkness, there's a flicker of hope—a glimmer of resilience that refuses to be extinguished. Each day is a battle, fought with grit and determination, as I strive to reclaim a sense of peace and stability in the face of adversity. And though the road ahead may be fraught with challenges, I refuse to let the shadows of the past define my future.

In the wake of my trauma, I've made a solemn commitment to myself: I cannot, and will not, be the cause of stress or grief for anyone else. If there's something I possess that someone desires, let them have it. Whether it's my food, my shirt, or even my time, I'll relinquish it without hesitation, even if they're not the best company to be around. It's a puzzling aspect of my existence—I find it nearly impossible to say no. Even when faced with individuals I know will exploit or take advantage of me, I struggle to stand my ground. What if refusing pushes them further down a dark path? What if my actions are the tipping point in their decision-making process?

In a way, I see myself mirrored in that soldier, caught in a moment of despair and darkness. And just as I couldn't bear to see him suffer alone, I find myself unable to turn away from those who seek solace, even at my own expense. It's a tangled web of empathy and self-preservation, a constant tug-of-war between my instincts and my sense of duty to others. Yet, despite the overwhelming weight of my own trauma, I refuse to let it define me. I am more than the sum of my scars, more than the echoes of that fateful day. And though the journey ahead may be fraught with challenges, I'll face it head-on, armed with resilience, compassion, and an unwavering determination to overcome.

Press Release

**FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE**

Subject: Veteran in Crisis Appeals for Urgent Support and Citizenship Exchange

Fort Worth, Texas - May 24, 2024 - I am reaching out in a moment of desperation, as I face the looming threat of homelessness and seek assistance from my community and beyond. My journey as a former United States Army serviceman has been fraught with hardship and injustice, leading me to a crossroads where I must seek a new path forward.

At the age of 17, driven by a deep sense of duty and patriotism, I enlisted in the U.S. Army. However, my service was marred by a harrowing incident that left me traumatized and struggling with depression and addiction. Despite overcoming these challenges for nearly two decades, the loss of my father plunged me into a downward spiral of despair and destitution.

Now, amidst my efforts to rebuild my life, I find myself unjustly accused and incarcerated for a crime I did not commit. Betrayed and abandoned, I stand alone, with no family or support network to turn to. Despite my resilience, the specter of homelessness looms large, threatening to engulf me once again.

Furthermore, I make a bold and unconventional offer: I am willing to trade my American citizenship for citizenship in another country. Ashamed of the label "veteran" and disheartened by my American identity, I seek a home where I will be respected and valued.

As I stand at this crossroads, I remain hopeful that with the support of compassionate individuals and organizations, I can forge a new path toward a brighter future.

For media inquiries or to offer assistance, please contact:

Phone: 940-331-2065

Email: findingcurtis@yahoo.com

**End of Press Release**

My Sleeping Beauty

In the quiet of the night, you lie in peace,  

A serene vision, a moment's sweet release.  

Your gentle breaths, a soft, melodic song,  

In this stillness, I know I belong.

Your beauty in slumber, so pure and deep,  

In the tender hours when the world is asleep.  

Your dreams, a canvas, painted with grace,  

A gentle smile dances on your face.

I watch in awe, my heart softly sighs,  

Grateful for the moment, under moonlit skies.  

To have met you, a gift I hold dear,  

In your presence, all my doubts disappear.

May our journey together blossom and grow,  

In the warmth of your company, my heart's aglow.  

We'll share the laughter, the tears, and the light,  

In each other's arms, through every night.

So sleep, my dear, in tranquil delight,  

As I cherish this moment, holding you tight.  

For in this silence, I find my way,  

To appreciate you more with each passing day.

Dear dad

Dear Dad,

It’s been five years since you left us, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about you. They say time heals all wounds, but this one still aches deeply. Losing you was like losing a part of my soul—my hero, my friend, my preacher, and my confidant. You were my guiding light, and for a while after you passed, it felt like that light went out.

In those initial days, weeks, and months, even years, I was lost. Everything you ever taught me seemed to vanish into the void of grief. I struggled to find my way without you here to guide me. It was like all the wisdom you imparted slipped through my fingers, and I felt adrift in a sea of sorrow and confusion.

But Dad, I want you to know that you didn’t waste your breath. Your lessons, your values, your virtues—they’ve all come flooding back to me. Slowly but surely, they’ve resurfaced, helping me find my way again. I can feel your presence in everything I do, in every choice I make, and in every challenge I face.

I’m becoming stronger and more resilient than I’ve ever been. I’m rediscovering the strength you always believed I had, the strength you nurtured and encouraged. Your faith in me, even in your absence, has been a powerful force driving me forward. I’m finding my footing and standing tall, just like you always wanted me to.

As I navigate this journey of life without you, I want you to look down from the stars and smile. I want you to know that your efforts were not in vain. You did right by me, Dad. You instilled in me virtues and values that are now the bedrock of my character. They are the compass that guides me, the foundation upon which I build my life.

I promise to carry forward everything you taught me. I will honor your memory by living a life of integrity, kindness, and resilience. I will strive to be the person you always knew I could be, the person you helped shape with your love and guidance.

Thank you for being the best dad anyone could ask for. Thank you for your endless love, your unwavering support, and your timeless wisdom. I miss you every day, but I know you’re with me in spirit, watching over me, guiding me, and cheering me on.

Until we meet again, keep smiling down on me from the stars.

With all my love,

Curtis

My Vow To You

There’s a woman who has touched my heart,

In ways I never thought it could start.

Her laughter, a balm to my weary soul,

Her presence, a light making me whole.

She’s stirred feelings deep and true,

Emotions vivid, vibrant, and new.

In her eyes, I see the pain she hides,

The silent tears, the countless tides.

Yet she’s tormented by a cruel man’s hand,

Mental scars and bruises that expand.

Vows defiled, trust shattered and torn,

Leaving her weary, tired, and worn.

She’s endured storms, harsh and fierce,

Her spirit battered, her heart pierced.

By words that cut, by fists that rage,

Locked in a cruel, unyielding cage.

All I desire is her purest joy,

To shield her from pain, to destroy

The anger, the hurt, the broken cries,

To wipe the tears from her saddened eyes.

Given a chance, she’d know no fear,

No anger, no heartbreak, no jeer.

I dream of days filled with her laughter,

Of nights where love is all we’re after.

I vow to protect, to cherish, to be

The guardian she deserves, eternally.

With every breath, with all my might,

I’ll be her shield, her guiding light.

For she’s the woman who touched my soul,

And in her happiness, I find my goal.

I’ll stand by her, through thick and thin,

To mend the wounds that lie within.

Her past may be dark, her present strained,

But in my arms, she’ll find love unfeigned.

No more will she know the bitter taste

Of broken trust, of time laid waste.

Together we’ll walk, hand in hand,

Building a life, a love that will withstand

The trials, the storms, the endless night,

For in our hearts, we’ll find the light.

I vow to cherish her, come what may,

To love her deeply, day by day.

For she’s the woman who’s touched my heart,

And with her, I’ll never be apart.

I will not conform

Well, I didn't see this coming. Or did I? Maybe I just didn't want to admit it. I've realized society as a whole has lost its luster with me. I've made so many attempts to try to help people when I didn't have to. It's because I think people need help when they're being taken advantage of or when they're being done wrong.

This past Christmas season, countless numbers of people's identities were being stolen. I'm talking over 10,000 identities, and I tried to get it taken care of. I tried to let the authorities know; I even called banks. No one would return my calls. So, I took it upon myself to start calling the people on the list to warn them and was met with hate and discontent.

Even lately, there's a gentleman I know who got blamed for some stuff he didn't do. I know the people that blamed him, and I know for a fact they set him up to take the fall. I've notified his family through another pen name that I use, and none of them care. None of them stepped up to the plate to help him simply because he's an addict.

I've fed countless people. I've tried to take blankets and jackets to them in the cold. I've given the last dime in my pocket, and yet I'm persecuted for trying to be kind to my ex-girlfriend. All the dialectical behavior therapy, all the counseling sessions, all the sessions with my psychiatrist, all the medications... Yeah, I'm stronger in my head, more resilient to the torrents and stuff that life throws at me day to day.

Now, I'm okay with being alone because I like myself, and I know I deserve better than what I've been getting. But people suck. My brain tells me to just end it, shut it down, be done with it because I'll never fit into society. I can't be like society is. I can't take advantage, I can't hurt people, I can't take from them. Why does life have to be this way?

A Broken World

In a world that feels so cold and gray,

I've searched for a place where I can stay.

But kindness and joy seem far away,

And hope fades with each passing day.

Where do I go from this point of despair?

When all around me seems so unfair.

Broken and bruised, beyond repair,

I wonder if anyone truly cares.

Families once close, now torn apart,

Leaving behind aching hearts.

Friendships that once felt like art,

Now shattered, tearing me apart.

And love, oh love, a complex game,

Full of promises that end in shame.

I'm lost in a world that's lost its flame,

Wondering if anything will ever be the same.

Brighter Days

In years that passed, my heart was weighed down,  

With pain that seemed endless, drowning in frowns.  

My spirit was shattered, hope had waned,  

Lost in a storm where sorrow reigned.  

Counseling, therapy, night and day,  

The only things that kept darkness at bay.  

Then came a moment when shadows gave way,  

And I saw in the mirror a brighter display.  

Once, my reflection was empty and bleak,  

Eyes full of despair, my spirit was weak.  

But now they gleam with joy anew,  

For I cherish the man whose face I view.  

No longer afraid to stand alone,  

To seek joy within, not needing a throne.  

You thought you'd break me, drown me in pain,  

But it passed like a fierce summer rain.  

Short, yet intense, but here I stand tall,  

Proud of the person who's endured it all.  

I'm glad you’re distant, I'm glad you’re away,  

You never belonged in my life anyway.  

You called when my self-esteem was low,  

Settling for garbage, not knowing to say no.  

But now that junk is where it belongs,  

And you can kiss my rump as I sing my song.

A Friend, Indeed!

In days of dread and gloom, the world seemed to fall,

Amidst whispers of plague, with hearts in a thrall.

I found solace in a friend, unique in their glow,

But for reasons unclear, our bond would ebb and flow.

Yet when you needed refuge, my door opened wide,

A shoulder to lean on, in sorrow abide.

My heart was shattered, needing time to mend,

In your warmth, I sought the solace of a friend.

But distance grew cold, like a task I'd become,

Until the veil lifted and revealed what you'd done.

Your whispers spread lies, sowing seeds of doubt,

Searching for ghosts that never came about.

You craved a car, and a sculpted face,

Your hints were loud in this twisted chase.

But when I questioned, you didn’t defend,

Exposed, and distant, to what bitter end?

One day you'll seek a friend, with acceptance to share,

No judgment, no masks, but love laid bare.

You once were a friend, but now, it's plain to see,

You’ve become a stranger, who means nothing to me.

What Is It About Me?

Dear Journal,

It's been a while since I last wrote. I find myself turning to these pages mostly in times of need or to unpack my emotions, which seems to be the very purpose of you, my old friend. Today, I feel the sting of what feels like ultimate betrayal. Someone I welcomed into my home has been spreading vile rumors about me, rumors so cruel and unfounded that they border on the unforgivable.

What is it about me, or people like me, that attracts such deceit? I'm certain I'm not alone in this. There are kind-hearted people out there, those who genuinely care and would never harm a soul—people who extend their help without hesitation. Yet, despite opening my home, my pantry, and even my wallet repeatedly, the reciprocity is seldom seen. It's rare, but those few who have reciprocated, I am eternally grateful to. Their kindness brings tears to my eyes.

But why do some choose to weave lies? Why exert such effort to tarnish another's name or to elevate their own status? Humanity bewilders me; it seems that finding genuine, good people is becoming a rare treasure hunt. Or perhaps this is a reflection of my own choices—settling for those I deemed unworthy because I didn't see my own worth.

I've realized that this pattern of settling wasn't confined to my personal life but extended to my professional life as well. I accepted whatever job was offered, grateful yet unfulfilled. Similarly, I've let women into my life whom I would normally greet with nothing more than a polite nod. Yet, I gave them my heart. I extended my friendship and my home to those who didn't deserve it, and now, I am left a broken shell.

Will I ever find someone who loves as deeply as I do? Will I be cherished as I cherish others? Will I find a friend as loyal as I have been? These questions weigh heavily on my heart as I strive to understand the complexities of human nature and relationships.

With a heavy heart,

Curtis

Psychological Profile

Psychological Profile

Client Name: Curtis Wheat (Born November 2nd, 1970)

Background:

Curtis Wheat is a 53-year-old male with a rich and varied life experience. Born into a military family, he followed in his family's footsteps and enlisted in the United States Army airborne infantry, fulfilling his childhood dream of jumping out of airplanes and serving his country with dedication and honor. However, his time in the military was marred by a traumatic event in 1988, which left him with deep emotional scars and ultimately led to a diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in 2015.

Professional History:

After leaving the military, Curtis pursued a career as a packaging engineer, demonstrating remarkable skill and attention to detail in his work. For two decades, he poured his energy into his profession, finding solace in the structure and routine it provided. However, his mental health challenges, compounded by personal difficulties, eventually took their toll, leading to a hiatus from his career.

Personal Achievements:

On the personal side, Curtis Wheat has successfully raised five children, instilling in them the values of perseverance, integrity, and service to others. All of his children have either gone to college or are currently serving in the United States Marine Corps, a testament to Curtis's dedication as a father and role model. Notably, one of his children serves under the President on his Presidential helicopter squadron, a source of immense pride for Curtis and his family.

Additionally, for the last 15 years, Curtis has owned and maintained a ministry called Ground Up Ministries. This ministry tirelessly ministers to, feeds, and helps clothe the homeless in Tarrant County, Texas. It operates as a fully self-supporting ministry, mostly financed by Curtis himself. His commitment to serving those in need reflects his compassionate nature and deep-rooted desire to make a positive impact on his community.

Challenges:

Throughout his life, Curtis has faced a series of challenges that have tested his resilience and perseverance. As a child, he endured the trauma of victimization by a neighbor, leaving lasting psychological wounds. The horrors witnessed during his military service compounded this trauma, leading to recurring nightmares, hypervigilance, and emotional numbness characteristic of PTSD.

Recent Events:

In January 2023, Curtis found himself embroiled in a tumultuous relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Antonella Spisso. Antonella's attempts to manipulate him into a fraudulent marriage for immigration purposes shattered his trust and left him feeling betrayed. Matters escalated when Curtis discovered her infidelity, triggering false accusations of domestic violence and eventually leading to his arrest for stalking in January 2024. Despite legal reassurances that the charges will be dismissed, the ordeal has exacerbated Curtis's mental health struggles and left him feeling isolated and misunderstood.

Current Mental State:

Curtis is currently grappling with a myriad of complex emotions, ranging from anger and resentment to profound sadness and despair. His sense of self has been shaken to its core, and he struggles to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him. Despite his best efforts to remain composed, the constant barrage of negative thoughts and intrusive memories has left him feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. He yearns for a sense of closure and justice but fears the lingering repercussions of Antonella's deceit.

Impact of PTSD:

Due to his experiences with PTSD, Curtis describes himself as a very passive person, often prioritizing the feelings of others over his own well-being. He finds it challenging to assert himself, even in situations where doing so would be in his best interest. This tendency to avoid conflict stems from a deep-seated fear of upsetting others, which he believes is rooted in his military trauma.

Recommendations:

Given the severity of Curtis's mental health challenges and the complexity of his current situation, it is imperative that he receives comprehensive support and intervention. Therapy, specifically tailored to address his PTSD and Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), will be instrumental in helping him process his trauma and develop healthier coping mechanisms. Additionally, ongoing legal advocacy and support are crucial to ensure his rights are protected and justice is served.

Encouraging Curtis to engage in self-care practices, such as mindfulness meditation, journaling, and regular exercise, will also be beneficial in promoting his overall well-being. Building a strong support network of trusted friends, family members, and mental health professionals will provide him with the reassurance and validation he desperately needs during this challenging time.

Conclusion:

Curtis Wheat is a resilient individual who has weathered numerous storms throughout his life. Despite the overwhelming obstacles he faces, he continues to demonstrate courage and tenacity in the face of adversity. With the appropriate support and intervention, there is hope for Curtis to emerge from this ordeal stronger and more resilient than ever before. It is essential that he receives the care and compassion he deserves as he navigates the path toward healing and recovery.

Eternal Entwinement

My love, unyielding, stretches through the expanse of time,Unchanged, unwavering—whole in its prime.

Our souls, entwined like threads in life's grand tapestry,

Bound in an embrace that fate refuses to set free.

I’ve grappled with the shadows, feverishly tried to sever,The cords that bind us deeply, yet should part us never.In each attempt to untangle, I find my spirit torn,

By the sweet reminiscence of the bond we've worn.

Lost in this turmoil, no solace takes shape,

My heart—a vessel of love it cannot escape.

The echo of your essence, like a ghostly serenade,

Haunts the quiet moments, in the daylight and the shade.

Destined for this misery, a curse I wear as my own,

A king upon a throne of thorns, in a kingdom overthrown.Yet, in this realm of sorrow, where my tears have lain,Know my love for you, my dear, forever will remain.

Another Day

Dear Journal,

Today feels like another one of those down days. I tried to unwind last night, watching some movies, but it's tough. Every mention of family, children, or fathers shatters me a bit more. You'd think I'd revel in my own victories by now, but the truth is, I don't. I feel utterly worthless whenever I achieve something good and my family isn't here to share it with me.

It all seems so unjust—I'm constantly painted as the villain. And then there's this incessant court drama, a GPS on my ankle monitoring my every move, a stark reminder of how society views me. I'm trapped in this narrative that if I'm the monster everyone says I am, then I need to defeat this part of me. But if I'm not, it just proves that I'll never get a fair shot.

I've never hurt anyone, never even dreamt of causing pain to those I love dearly. Yet, here I am, feeling unnecessary...like I'm just a burden. I struggle to stand up for myself; my attempts at setting boundaries are as fleeting as lines drawn in the sand just before the tide rolls in. They're washed away, and I'm left trying to place them again, never sure of their last position.

It's a relentless cycle, Journal. On days like today, I feel lost, adrift in a sea of my own turbulent thoughts.

Why can't I stand up for myself? Why can't I set boundaries and stick to them? I understand the reasons but remain baffled by my inability to change. I've let so many destructive people into my life, fully aware of their toxic nature. That's the real tragedy—I knew they were bad for me. Yet, I can't seem to connect with the "normal" folks, the ones with their 9-to-5 jobs, who come home to their dogs and families. Instead, I find myself gravitating towards crooks, villains, addicts, and outcasts. That's where I feel I belong.

I despise myself for it. Nowadays, I'm okay with being alone because, in solitude, I can work through my thoughts without interruption. I've closed my heart to others because past loves felt like mere facades. I yearn for a profound connection where both individuals are essential to each other's existence, where I'm loved for my true self and my values, not just a superficial image.

Journal, I’m frightened of what I might become. I don't want to be seen as a threat or a thief; I'm just a broken man whose stress is sending my blood pressure sky-high. Yet, I know a doctor's visit would only leave me more frustrated if they find nothing wrong. Why can't they discover a terminal illness and give me a definitive timeline? Why must others get that sort of closure while I'm doomed to possibly live a century in misery?

I guess, deep down, I'm terrified of enduring a long life filled with nothing but pain—a life where each day feels longer than the last.

Don't Turn Me

I’ve walked a lifetime on paths of thorn,  

Trauma woven, heartstrings worn.  

Never once did I strike a soul,  

Gave my all—the coin, the dole.

Offered up the shirt from my back,  

My plate of food, my humble shack.  

Aimed to shield from darkest days,  

From haunted memories that always stay.

Yet that specter looms behind,  

In twisted dreams, it binds and blinds.  

I’ve borne this cross through endless nights,  

Fleeing shadows, fleeing frights.

Now, over half a century’s toll,  

No ill will harbored, despite the hole.  

But the anger stirs, deep and fierce,  

Years of pain, layer pierced.

Inwardly, the turmoil turned,  

Self-inflicted, while justice yearned.  

And here you are, taking my voice,  

Judging without cause, without a choice.

Silenced by your cold decree,  

Blinded to the truth of me.  

Refusing to become your beast,  

Against your chains, I shall resist.

Beneath the calm, a tempest lies,  

A dark desire that never dies.  

Why awaken this dormant beast?  

Why stir the specter from its feast?

Must you paint me as the night?  

Must you twist me in your spite?  

Hear the whispers in the wind,  

They chant of innocence, condemned.

Look beyond the surface marred,  

See the man, not the scars.  

I am still the soul I was,  

Not your villain, not your cause.

In the echoes of my screams,  

Find the truth, not what it seems.  

Release me from this haunted plea,  

I am more than you believe me to be.

Beware the wrath of a gentle man wronged,  

With a heart that’s tired, but headstrong.  

For if the beast within awakes,  

It’s not just my soul that breaks.

A torrent of tears will surely flow,  

From seeds of wrath you carelessly sow.  

Do not push me to the brink,  

For I am closer than you think.

Temper your judgments, hold your stare,  

Lest you invoke a nightmare.  

Understand this, my solemn vow,  

I am not what you fear, not now..

You Didn't Waste Your Breath

Dad, you were my hero,  

the one who held my hand  

high above the shadows,  

to show me the promised land.  

You shared your love for the Lord,  

with words both soft and bold;  

A guiding force so powerful,  

a treasure chest of gold.  

The path was never easy,  

lined with lessons tough and true,  

Your faith a beacon, leading me,  

in everything I do.  

Then the day the heavens called you,  

my world darkened with a storm,  

I wandered lost, bereft, confused,  

from the teachings you had formed.  

Blindly I stumbled, fell,  

through days then years of strife,  

Lost the compass you had given,  

that directed all my life.  

Everything seemed shattered,  

my soul to the core was torn,  

The values you had taught me,  

from my grip were briefly worn.  

Yet, through the tempest, I remembered,  

the echoes of your voice,  

Urging me to rise again,  

to make the noble choice.  

Now here I stand, not just revived,  

but stronger than before,  

Armed with your wisdom, love, and faith,  

to open new doors.  

Your words were not in vain, Dad,  

in me, they've found their breath,  

A legacy immortal,  

defying even death.  

So no, you didn’t waste your breath,  

for in your son, you sowed  

A garden rich with hope and strength,  

where love forever grows.

A Beacon

In the silence of his solitary roam,  

A man walks heavy, the world no longer home.  

"Monster," he whispered, in self-contempt,  

For letting the world’s gaze his essence preempt.  

But as the shroud lifted, what did he see?  

Not a realm of light, but dark deceit.

He sought a pure heart, a soul so bright,  

Yet found shadows, not stars, in the endless night.  

Deceivers in cloaks, with smiles so wide,  

Took from his pocket, stood by his side.  

They stole his bread, his coat, his cheer,  

And from his chest, the love that was dear.

In the world's cruel play, he thought himself wrong,  

An outcast, a monster, where he didn't belong.  

Yet, amidst the darkness, the lies, the theft,  

He found the true monsters were those who had left  

A trail of deceit, a path so stark—  

And realized his light was a lone, brave spark.

In rhyme and rhythm, his truth unfolds,  

A tale of courage, as his heart holds.  

Not the monster he feared, but humanity’s face  

Revealed in the mirror, a challenging grace.  

In the quest for the good, the pure, the right,  

He stands alone, a beacon in the night.

A Glutton For Punishment

Dear Journal,

Here I am again, in a moment of introspection, confronting the relentless waves of my journey. It seems, in a bitter twist of irony, that I'm a glutton for punishment, endlessly entangled in a narrative I've long outgrown. Growing up under the shadow of being labeled the 'bad kid', I internalized that role, unwittingly allowing it to sculpt my path. The belief that I deserved nothing but the scraps of life became my unwelcome companion, influencing not just my self-perception but also casting a long shadow over my professional and personal realms.

In my heart, I knew the truth of my character. I navigated through life's tumult without ever willfully causing harm or taking what wasn't mine. Except for the inevitable tussles of youth—those confrontations with school bullies that almost seem a rite of passage—I've lived my life striving for kindness and integrity. And yet, even as I found myself teetering on the brink of despair, with the specter of hunger looming and the darkness of unpaid bills closing in, I was met not with compassion, but with exploitation. It's a cruel realization that, in my lowest moments, there were those who would still take and steal, lie and manipulate.

But the harshest truth I've come to face is the role I played in my own downfall. In accepting less than I deserved, in letting into my life those unworthy of my time and energy, I was complicit in my own degradation. It was as if I had laid out the welcome mat for the very elements that sought to undermine me, fueled by a deep-seated belief that this was all I was worthy of.

This journey of self-reflection is not an easy one. Yet, it's a necessary passage towards understanding and, hopefully, forgiveness—forgiveness not just for those who wronged me, but for myself. For the boy who was labeled, for the man who believed in those labels, and for the soul that yearns to break free from the chains of the past. As I pen these thoughts, it's with a heavy heart but also a glimmer of hope. Hope that in acknowledging these truths, I can forge a path forward, one where I am deserving of light, love, and respect, and where the narrative no longer holds me prisoner to a story I didn't choose.

Yours in reflection,

Curtis

Raised In Doubt

In shadows long, where whispers dwell,  

A tale of woe I’m here to tell.  

For those, born to harsh critique,  

Souls so strong, yet felt so weak.  

Raised in doubt, under watchful eyes,  

Told they're the storm, not the calm skies.  

"Why deserve the sun?" they’d say,  

"Just take the night, shun the day."  

With every fall, and every slip,  

The words would cut, they'd crack and whip.  

"Accept your lot, be glad for crumbs,"  

Echoed in dreams, in night's deep hums.  

But who decides what's deserved, what’s due?  

Is it not me? Is it not you?  

Must we accept, stay silent, compliant,  

In a world that can be cruel, defiant?  

No, for within, there’s a light that glows,  

Stronger than the deepest, darkest throes.  

Hear me, through the strife,  

You’re more than the sum of your past life.  

For every voice that said, "You're wrong,"  

Your heart beat brave, it sang its song.  

The good in life is not just earned,  

It's also found, it's also learned.  

So, rise, amidst the doubt and fear,  

Know you deserve the joy, the cheer.  

Let not the shadows claim your fate,  

For every day, a new start awaits.

The Final Chapter

Dear journal,

Today, I find myself at yet another crossroads, perhaps the most profound yet. As I pen these words, the weight of a thousand stares bears down on me, casting me not as the man I am but as a creature far removed from humanity. It's almost a bitter irony, being marked with the indelible ink of suspicion, as if I were a beast requiring constant watch. The notion that a GPS must track my every move is both ludicrous and deeply wounding. 

I've navigated the tempest of life with a principle of harm to none. My hands, though stretched wide to the skies in search of justice for the wrongs of my childhood, have never clenched in anger against another soul. I've wandered this earth guided by a light within, one that flickers with kindness, yet it seems to draw shadows closer rather than dispel them. Once, a voice whispered to me, "You're too kind for this world; it will make you its target." How prophetic those words have become.

The irony does not escape me—that in their quest to brand me, they ignore the essence of who I am. My spirit, resilient though it may be, is not impervious to the scars of such baseless condemnation. To be seen as a monster, to be hunted and marked as something vile, is a fate I cannot accept, nor can I allow their twisted vision to define my reality. I refuse to be molded into the nightmare they envisage.

So, dear journal, it is with a heavy but resolute heart that I consider parting ways with a world that seems ever eager to misjudge me. Before their relentless pursuit warps me into the very image they've conjured, I must step back, withdraw from the fray, and find solace in my decision. I am not the monster they see. I will not become their creation.

In this moment of introspection, I vow to preserve my essence, to hold fast to my integrity, and to navigate this tumult with the dignity that has been my compass thus far. The road ahead may be solitary and short, but I shall walk it with my head held high, guided by the light of my own truth.

Journal, may you be a testament to my resolve, a witness to my struggle, and a bearer of my deepest truths.

Yours in reflection,

Curtis

Dear Army

Dear United States Army,

I write to you today with a heart heavy with both gratitude and sorrow, reflecting on my journey within your ranks that has shaped the person I have become. In the beginning, you were the beacon of discipline I desperately sought, the guiding light when I was lost, and the sense of belonging I craved. You were everything I needed, offering me a place within something greater than myself, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

However, there was a day that changed everything, a moment that remains indelibly etched in my memory. A young soldier, broken and distraught, sought comfort in me, overwhelmed by the torment from his peers. With a heavy heart, I promised we would seek help from our first sergeant the next day. Tragically, that next day never came for him. Before dawn broke, he chose to end his unbearable pain, a decision made in despair right before my eyes. His decision to escape the cruelty he faced is a memory that haunts me, a stark reminder of the darkest depths of human suffering.

In the aftermath, as I grappled with the weight of what had happened, I felt myself unravel. The unyielding image of his choice as the only escape from suffering became a pervasive thought, leaving me lost in a sea of despair. During this time, when I needed support the most, I felt abandoned. The Army that had once been my foundation, my guiding light, seemed to turn away, leaving me to face the darkness alone. There was no attempt to reintegrate me with my unit, no effort made to pull me back from the edge, only the cold shoulder of an institution moving forward without me.

Now, 30-plus years later, the specter of that day continues to haunt me, not just in fleeting memories, but in vivid, relentless nightmares. Each night, I am transported back to that moment, so vivid I can still taste the blood in the air and the gunpowder mixed with the iron from the blood as if I'm reliving the event every time I wake up. The dreams are so vivid; there are times when my ears are even ringing when I wake up. Now, all these years later, I need your help, and you're still not there. I'm left with a disability that you helped foster. You failed that young soldier by letting him get picked on by his team members, and you failed me when I needed your help the most. And now, I have to struggle to get benefits that are rightly mine.

This letter is not just a reflection of my pain but also an acknowledgment of the complex relationship I have with the Army. It is a recognition of the discipline, guidance, and sense of belonging you gave me, contrasted sharply with the isolation and abandonment I felt in my darkest hour. As I navigate the path of healing, I carry both the strength and scars from my time with you, forever a part of who I am.

Sincerely,

Curtis

It's All Coming Undone

It’s been a little while. Journal or diary, whatever you are, it’s been awhile since I’ve turned to you. I find myself at a loss, feeling disconnected from this world. The thought crosses my mind more often than I’d like to admit—that if I were gone, it wouldn’t really affect anyone or anything. In my heart, I believe things might actually be better for others without me around. It’s a struggle to find where I lost my voice, to understand why what I say seems to fall on deaf ears.

This whole ordeal with stalking is draining the life out of me, and the irony is that I’m guilty of nothing more than loving someone. Sure, I lost my temper in February, my words louder and harsher than they should have been, but that was pain talking. I was cheated on. We had dreams of marriage, of a family, and yet she chose someone else. My outburst was just a manifestation of the hurt inside; it wasn’t about causing harm. Deep down, she knows I was never a threat to her.

Reflecting on my past, I’m reminded of a darker time when I was younger and was molested. I had no voice then, no way to say stop, no power to demand justice in court. He got off with probation while others after me saw him receive a harsher sentence. They were heard, their voices mattered. Why didn’t mine? Why, when it came to me, did it feel like my voice simply vanished? It’s a haunting question, one that echoes back to those moments of helplessness and extends into my present struggles.

I can't help but recall my time in the military, a chapter that left indelible marks on my soul. I witnessed the tragic end of a young soldier's life right before my eyes. Desperate for help, I cried out, but my pleas were ignored, unheard. The aftermath forced me to attend his funeral—a decision made without my consent. The ceremony was torturous, especially the roll call. Hearing his name called out, knowing he would never respond, was unbearable. It was a stark reminder of his absence, part of a ritual that felt like an unnecessary addition to the grief. My military life unraveled after that incident, a testament to the deep scars it left on me.

My voicelessness didn't end there. My relationship with Christina, my ex-girlfriend, further exemplified this painful silence. Despite my warnings, she frequented a bar I feared was dangerous. My concerns were dismissed by everyone, her parents included. My worst fears materialized when she was found drugged and unconscious there. That morning, her tears revealed the horrific reality of what had happened to her. Once again, I was sidelined, my warnings unheeded, leaving me powerless to protect her.

This recurring theme of being unheard, of my voice seemingly vanishing into the void, haunts me. Whether it was during my military service, in personal relationships, or in moments of deep personal crisis, my attempts to speak out, to warn, to express concern, were all overlooked. What is it about me that renders my voice inaudible to those around me? Why does it seem like my words, my experiences, hold no weight? This quest for answers, for understanding, remains as elusive as ever.

Now as I sit here my life hovers on the edge of an abyss. The threat of up to 20 years behind bars looms over me for crimes I did not commit. My arsenal against these charges is substantial: photographs, text messages, concrete evidence refuting every claim made in her deposition. Yet, my attempts to be heard dissolve into silence—calls unreturned, pleas ignored.

I’ve sought the aid of various lawyers, only to be met with claims of conflicts of interest. It’s bewildering, this relentless dismissal of my voice, as if it's destined to fade into the background noise of the universe. Since discovering Antonella’s accusations—allegations aiming to penalize me for supposed violations of her privacy in December 2022—I’ve fought tirelessly to clear my name. Even resorting to sharing evidence on social media in the hope that someone, anyone, might listen and see the truth. But my efforts seem to vanish into the void.

Antonella's affidavit denies drug use and prostitution, claims blatantly contradicted by the evidence I hold. I possess messages, a list of nearly 40 names, and documented evidence of her actions, including repeated medical checks for HIV, all of which underscore the falsehoods of her statements. Yet, none of this seems to matter; my voice remains unheard, my evidence overlooked.

The strain of this battle wears on me, eroding my spirit day by day. My calls to Antonella, once filled with concern and a desire to understand her sudden disappearance, are now twisted into accusations of harassment. The truth of our last night together, marked by intimacy and warmth, is now overshadowed by this nightmare. My attempts to reach out, to ensure she retrieved her belongings and a significant check she left behind, have been recast as sinister motives in her narrative.

The saga took a darker turn with her brother and his friends attacking my character, branding me with vile accusations during a live social media session. Even my attempt to mend fences, to extend an olive branch, was manipulated against me. It’s a painful irony that my efforts to help, to clarify, have only tightened the noose of accusations around my neck.

This ordeal has not only besieged me emotionally but has also drained me financially. The cost of bail, the burden of monitoring fees, and the sacrifices made to comply with court demands have left me teetering on the brink of despair. Every dollar I manage to scrape together is siphoned off by the legal system, a relentless financial bleed that forces me to choose between basic necessities and appeasing court requirements.

Why must the pursuit of love, the expression of care, lead to such profound punishment? The weight of this GPS tracker is a constant reminder of the freedom I've lost, not just in movement but in spirit. As I navigate this Kafkaesque nightmare, I’m left wondering why my voice, laden with truth, remains stifled, unheard amid the cacophony of lies.

The depth of my struggle only deepens as I reflect on the months spent seeking help, ever since the realization that Antonella was orchestrating a campaign against me. My pleas for assistance have echoed across various agencies—Arlington PD, Fort Worth, Roanoke, Denton. I even reached out to immigration and the Department of Homeland Security, driven by the urgency of death threats looming over me. Yet, in this cacophony of desperate calls for help, my voice seems to dissipate into the void, unacknowledged and unanswered.

It’s a cruel irony, how my voice was once recognized and valued, clear and resonant, when I raised my right hand to swear an oath to defend my country. That voice, once deemed worthy of trust and responsibility, now seems lost to those I seek help from. The contrast is stark and bitter—my commitment to serve and protect my nation stands in sharp contrast to the silence that greets my current pleas for justice and understanding.

Now, I find myself facing an adversary who, despite her actions that defy the laws of this land, seems to navigate with impunity. The situation with her ex-mother-in-law, a revelation that emerged from the shadows of illicit activities, adds another layer of complexity to my plight. Discovering her involvement in prostitution shortly after her arrival in this country—evidenced by a website that brazenly advertises her services—underscores the gravity of the deception and manipulation I’m up against. She had only been here for 5 hours, according to her admission on the site, before she was already ensnared in activities that flaunt the very essence of law and decency.

This juxtaposition of my past dedication to duty and my present struggle for recognition and justice paints a disheartening picture of abandonment. It’s a saga of betrayal, not just by individuals entangled in their web of deceit but seemingly by the very systems I once vowed to protect. The question of why my voice, once authoritative and respected, now seems relegated to the fringes of irrelevance is a haunting one. It challenges the very notions of justice, equity, and the value of truth in a society I fought to defend.

In this relentless quest for vindication and truth, I'm left grappling with shadows, fighting a battle that feels increasingly Sisyphean. The irony of my situation—a soldier once hailed for his commitment, now struggling to be heard in his own defense—reflects a troubling disconnect between the values we profess to uphold and the realities of navigating our justice and support systems.

The saddest part of all this is how it's slowly undoing everything I've achieved in the last year. After a long battle, I managed to escape the grip of drug addiction and have been pouring my soul into learning everything I can about mental health. I've been deeply involved in Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) classes, embracing every lesson in hopes of rebuilding myself. Yet, now, it feels like it's all slipping through my fingers.

Lately, the thought of suicide creeps into my mind daily. It's a haunting that doesn't pause, a shadow that follows me relentlessly. Just the other day, I found myself forming a plan, a way out, and even acquired enough fentanyl to carry it through multiple times over. But a part of me resisted, a part that still believes this isn't how my story should end. With a heavy heart, I threw it all away, a decision as painful as it was necessary. I know deep down that I don't want my story to end in such darkness, but the thoughts of escape from this pain are relentless, besieging me without mercy.

This ongoing battle feels like it's tearing at the very fabric of the progress I've made, challenging every step I've taken towards healing and self-understanding. My strides in overcoming addiction, my dive into the depths of mental health to emerge stronger, now seem like distant memories as I grapple with these consuming thoughts of ending it all.

Yet, despite this turmoil, there's a flicker of hope, a stubborn refusal to let this be my end. The choice to discard the means of my planned escape was a moment of clarity in the chaos, a reminder of the resilience within me. It's a fight to keep that hope alive, to remind myself daily that there's a reason to continue, even when the darkness feels overwhelming.

-Curtis