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