#raw me

Sanctified Silence: Childhood in Chains

Childhood is often imagined as a realm of innocence, yet for some, it is marked by rituals and doctrines that prescribe every thought and feeling, with warnings of eternal consequences. Stories meant to inspire awe sometimes instead instilled dread: tales of sin and salvation, of punishment and reward, of a world divided into the righteous and the lost. Trust in oneself—in curiosity and joy—became suspect. Doubt was discouraged. Questioning frowned upon.

I was never sexually abused by clergy, but mine was a mental abuse. My peers refused to include me in games because I was poor. I was forced to sit in adult church and hear adult sermons. Fear of doing something wrong and a wrathful God smiting me… hearing about tithing every Sunday service… same sob stories over and over. The pastor used my family as a sales pitch to show how good the church was for helping us. Humiliation. Anger. Malice.

Driven by contempt, I began researching how this church could get away with treating us like this. Soon, I found my answers—and left religion in my dust. What wasn’t spoken over the pulpit rang louder than the select choices that were. I had been the subject of a cruel greed… a humiliating, degrading, money-making scheme. I left at 16 and began a 36-year career of professional work.

Wrestling with Shadows: Adolescence in Turmoil

As childhood gave way to adolescence, the struggle intensified. The mirror reflected a face searching for belonging, yet haunted by the words of authority figures who claimed to speak for the divine.

I was 12 when I first tasted sex. Unfortunately, it was rape. Five days of hell, with the final day being my “reward”—a free trip to Mackinaw Island. I tried to tell my mother later. She refused to believe me. So I dropped it… until adulthood, when I finally made peace with it.

The secret questions multiplied: If my thoughts stray, am I condemned? If I doubt, do I betray my family or faith?

The search for identity, already turbulent, was made harder by the weight of inherited doctrine. Some found solace in music, art, or the natural world—refuge from judgment. But the shadows were persistent, whispering shame and self-doubt in quiet moments.

The Long Road: Adulthood and the Fight to Heal

Adulthood brought escape, and with it, the first breath of freedom—a chance to redefine boundaries and question beliefs once accepted without pause. Yet, trauma does not vanish with distance. It lingers in thought patterns, in reflexes of self-censorship, in the ache for approval that never comes.

Healing is slow and often painful. It required learning to trust in one’s own worth, to find comfort in uncertainty, and to forgive both oneself and those who, bound by their own fears, passed those burdens along.

A 14-year marriage built on red flags. An 18-month marriage built on sex. Arrested for a crime I didn’t commit. When my time was up, I was forced to walk 20+ miles in the January Michigan snow.

Darkness fell. I trudged along. One foot in front of the other. Sleet stung my skin. My feet—numb, soaked, blistered. Step after step. Mile after mile. I kept going.

Passing through a small town, my thoughts turned dark. A semi truck approached. I was ready to step in front of it. But then I saw the driver’s face. Something asked me: “Is it fair to ruin his life just to end yours?” I stepped back. And kept walking.

I found a pine grove at the county line. Waded through knee-deep snow. Broke twigs to sit on. Removed my coat. Sat against the trunk. Calmed myself into sleep. Coyotes howled on the ridgeline. I thought, “I can’t go out like this… feeling my arms and legs ripped from my body while conscious.” I got up. Put my coat back on. Walked further. Coyotes followed.

A mile down the road, a deputy stopped. Took me to a friend’s house. They refused to answer the door. Back to the office. Seven hours in an unheated foyer. Escorted to my car—dead battery, flat tire. Limped to a gas station. Filled the tire. Headed for another county. There, a sheriff waited. Directed me to a homeless shelter. 100 miles later, I arrived at the basement of an Anglican Church. I would spend the next three months there.

Early days were agony. Blisters on both feet, ¼ inch thick. Tears from the pain. But 20+ miles in icy slush—that was my price to pay. I healed.

Found an apartment. Started over with what little was in my car. Survived. Spent long hours at the library. Reading. Learning.

Then came a call. My first ex-wife. She wanted to move on. Asked if I could pick up my mom—who had been living with her due to poor health. I couldn’t deny her. She’d been kind. March 3, 2011—I took a Greyhound downstate. Rented a U-Haul. By nightfall, we were eating dinner less than an hour from home.

The Last Light: Love in the Shadow of Forgetting

Soon, my mom was diagnosed with dementia. My siblings abandoned us. No communication. No help. I was on my own.

Over time, the wounds of childhood religious trauma became scars—not erased, but softened by understanding and grace. The struggle to heal opened paths to deeper empathy.

On my 46th birthday, I made a cake. Like I had done every year. I brought it to the living room. Presented it to my mom. She looked me in the eyes—and I felt my soul rip from my body. She had forgotten my birthday. Worse—forgotten who I was. She knew I was important. But not how.

I joked. Made light of it. Inside, I was searching for something to hide behind. Later, I sat on the edge of my bed. Sobbing. So hard I had an out-of-body experience. I held myself—physically—while I sobbed. Wherever I was, I wasn’t sobbing. But the half I was holding trembled, wailed with a sound I’d never heard before.

Weeks passed. Months. I became sole cook, scheduler, caregiver, transport, medical diary. I was living for two people.

She grew weaker in 2022. Bedridden. Non-communicative. On July 4, she turned her head and said clearly: “I’ll miss you too.” Her silver-blue eyes met mine. Tears welled up. She was in the final stage.

July 10. I checked on her at 9am. Sleeping well. At noon—huffing. Not normal breathing. I panicked. Called 911. The officer was clueless. The EMTs arrived. Explained her directive: no resuscitation.

At 13:59, she took her final breath. Her fight was over.

I placed a farewell kiss on her forehead. Wished her Godspeed. Walked out of the room.

The cop and M.E. grilled me. Insinuated neglect. I stood up to challenge them. The female EMT intervened. Told them to leave.

She turned to me. Said they hadn’t lost a parent yet. They didn’t understand dementia. But she did. She knew I had cared for my mom to the end.

The coroner came. Lifted her little body onto the gurney. Paused. Asked if I had any last words.

“No… I had her for 11 years. She knew without doubt she was loved, honored, and safe.”

He bowed his head. Solemnly ushered her out of her home one last time. I lost my grip. And sobbed.

Endurance: The Light That Remains

To reflect on these shadows is to acknowledge the resilience of the spirit, the power of hope, and the possibility of transformation. The journey is never linear. It is made of setbacks and breakthroughs. Grief and laughter. But each step is a testament to survival—and to the enduring human capacity to seek light, even in the longest night. I danced with the Devil in the hottest flames of Hell only to find out that he’s not a great dancer.

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Não importa o quão triste e sádico possa parecer, sou assim

"My father abandoned my sister and I when I was just 4 years old, my sister 3. I would sit at the front picture window waiting for him to come back. I would go to my room and just cry…I missed him so much. I buried myself in books. I read everything I could read. I read an entire set of encyclopedias once…A to Z and the bonus book. Reading was my escape from the pain. If it weren’t for the only best friend I ever had in school…nobody would have ever seen me or noticed me. As I write this, the tears are streaming down my cheeks, flowing as the pain in my heart pours out in them. I know you don’t care, and I feel as if I am wasting my time saying this…but I cannot sleep so might as well waste my time anyhow. I really hoped you were different…I’m not seeing any evidence. This lack of evidence leads me back to the feelings of uselessness, unwanted, trash…all too familiar to me. Feelings that I am only good enough when someone needs something from me…or I can give them something for free. This is the torment in my head, my prison. My heart is shattered, the tears falling uncontrollably, and I am stuck in this prison. No reprieve, no time away from the horrible thoughts and feelings, no rest. I keep so much hidden from everyone. I must wear a face of happiness, of care, of whatever they want…all the while screaming “let me out!!!”, “help me!!!”, “will someone just love me?”.  No…<my name removed> has to be there for everyone while no one is there for him. NO ONE. I hear people say “IF you need anything…I’m here for you” with empty regards…they say it to make themselves feel better because they said something nice. This is what this world has been reduced to. Then…there are a very rare few like me…who truly mean it…who truly let their actions back their words. We are the loneliest people on this planet because we always put others first. "

16. Do you have anyone else’s nudes on your phone right now?

I have my own and some pictures i took first hand of my boyfriend in my camera roll. I also have this old video of me when i was 18 and getting absolutely dicked down by a cock 9 inches long 🤪. As well as saved photos in snapchat of the many men that grace me with their bodies. You included baby 😘