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Chapter 5 : Kindergarten IQ and Crayon Prophecies

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October 9, 2025


By the time kindergarten rolled around, I had almost mastered the art of pretending to be a normal kid. Almost. I knew how to lose at Candy Land without flipping the board. I stopped blurting out movie quotes from films that hadn’t come out yet. And I really tried to stop finishing adults’ sentences just because I already knew how they ended.

But school? That was a different battlefield.

At home, I could get away with being “precocious” or “clever.” My parents chalked it up to natural smarts. Grandma called it “a gifted spirit.” But in a classroom full of five-year-olds who thought triangles had four sides and glue was a gourmet snack? I stood out. And standing out was dangerous.
It started innocently enough—a pop quiz on colors. I finished it in seconds. Then numbers. Then came shapes.

Mrs. Janson, who wore enough perfume to stun a rhino, held up a hexagon and asked, “Can anyone tell me what shape this is?”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “Technically, that’s a regular convex polygon with six equal sides and angles.”

The whole class went quiet. Mrs. Janson blinked. “…Hexagon,” she said slowly.

“Right,” I mumbled, slinking down into my seat. “That’s what I meant.”
From that moment on, she watched me differently. Not with Grandma’s curiosity or warmth, but with concern. Like I was a toddler holding a loaded weapon. Surprised. Wary. A little afraid.
Two weeks later, I was pulled into a quiet little room with a woman in a beige pantsuit and an overly friendly voice.

“We’re just going to play some games today, okay, sweetheart?” she said, pulling out a stack of laminated cards.

I’d been in this room before—just not in this life. This was where they sent the “weird” kids. The ones who didn’t fit into the boxes. In my last life, I was labeled as special needs because of a speech impediment, untreated ADHD, and anxiety I didn’t have the words to explain. I remembered the humiliation. Being pulled from class. The stares. The way adults talked about me instead of to me.

But this time? I had four decades of coping skills. I just had to not screw this up.
I deliberately got a few answers wrong so I wouldn’t come off as some kind of genius. I wasn’t—just someone who remembered everything. I played dumb. Pretended I didn’t know how to spell giraffe, even though I’d once written a research paper on their mating patterns.

But then she asked, “Can you count as high as you can for me?”
And I slipped, “Do you want prime numbers or just whole numbers?”
She blinked. “Just… regular counting is fine.”
I froze. “Oh. Uh… one, two, three…”
I counted to a hundred before I got bored.
Her pen scratched across her notepad like a guillotine.
After that, the school psychologist started sitting in on our class. The principal made too many appearances. I overheard teachers whispering about “gifted testing.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept wondering: What if they figured me out? Would they move me to a special school? Scan my brain? Lock me away in some research lab? But the tests came and went.
The school handed my parents a glowing report filled with praise and long acronyms. “Highly intelligent,” it read. “Possible signs of asynchronous development.” Even as an adult, I had never heard that phrase.

So, first chance I got, I looked it up.
Asynchronous development means growing at uneven speeds—like a kid whose brain is ten years ahead, but whose emotions are still learning how to share crayons. It was their explanation for why I seemed gifted… but also off.

They recommended enrichment classes, puzzle-based learning, and extra reading time. Mom beamed. Dad high-fived me and told me how proud he was. Grandma just gave me that long, slow look over her glasses—and said nothing. Later that night, I caught her standing in the hallway, holding something in her hands.

It was my drawing—the one I’d made in crayon with big, blocky letters:
“SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER WILL BLOW UP IN 1986. 7 ASTRONAUTS DIE.”

She still had it. And now, she was just staring at it, like she was remembering that I’d written it a whole year before it happened. Remembering how distraught I’d been after the explosion. She didn’t see me at first. She just stood there, brushing her thumb along the edge of the paper like she was trying to feel the truth in it. Then she noticed me, set the drawing down and hugged me tight.

“Be careful,” she whispered. “I don’t think the world is ready for you yet.”
I stared up at her. “What?”
“You know things you shouldn’t. Even things that haven’t happened yet.”
My throat went dry. “Grandma…”

She pulled back and looked down at me with the same warmth I remembered from the last life. She had always stepped in when Mom was too cruel. Had covered for me. Held me during panic attacks. Sat with me through heartbreak and silence. She had been the mother I never had and here she was again.

“I don’t know how or why,” she said softly. “But you were just a little boy one day… and the next, you weren’t.” So I told her everything.

She listened—quiet, still—and when I finished, she didn’t run. She didn’t call anyone. She didn’t panic. She just hugged me again, and let me cry.

Because for all the fantasy this sounds like, reliving your childhood when no one knows you’ve done it before is lonely. Isolating. I was a middle-aged man in the body of a kindergartner. Hanging out with kids felt… weird and parents didn’t understand or would believe anything I said.

“I believe you,” she said. “I don’t know why. But I do.”
I gave her a few small stock tips. Told her what to buy, when to sell. Nothing outrageous—just quiet security. And then I had to have the hard talk.

I told her that in my previous life, she passed away in 2017. Health complications. So I begged her to take care of herself. I offered to go on walks with her, tempted her by saying I’d tell her more stories about how life unfolded the first time. We talked for over an hour and when I finally went to bed, I realized something I hadn’t dared to hope: I wasn’t alone anymore, I had Binx and I had my grandma. I was building my life. Making small corrections where I could.
And maybe—just maybe—I could do more.



                *

He was smaller than I remembered.
Jordan Downing.
In my old life, he was the first person to ever make me feel worthless at school. The kid who mocked my speech issues relentlessly—something that, thankfully, wasn’t a problem this time around. He made me a social pariah in second grade. He pushed me into a trash can in fifth. He made sure everyone saw when he “accidentally” spilled milk all over my Hobbit book in seventh.
He was hell in a red windbreaker and Velcro shoes and now, he was standing in front of me, holding out a sticky graham cracker.

“Trade?” he asked.

My first instinct was to swat it away. To glare at him with all the fury of a man who’d been humiliated in public, left alone at lunch tables, and talked into silence. I wasn’t the same helpless, scared kid I’d been before. A few years after high school, I got into mixed martial arts, which I studied for three years. Then a buddy convinced me to join him in kickboxing, and I spent another four years training. This time around, I knew how to fight. I wasn’t afraid of getting hit.

But then… I looked again.
He was just a kid. His nose was runny. His smile was honest. He was still around my age—it’d be another year before we started first grade together. And that’s when it hit me like a freight train: He didn’t know who he was going to become. He hadn’t done those things to me yet. He hadn’t hurt me. Not yet and maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t, if someone reached him before the damage took root.
I took the graham cracker and nodded. “Trade.”

We sat in the sandbox, silent and sticky-fingered, while I wrestled with one heavy, impossible thought: If I could change him… what did that make me? A redeemer? A manipulator? Or just a guy trying to stop the next wave of pain?

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Chapter 4: The Ice Cream Truck Incident

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September 26, 2025


By the time I turned three, I was growing more accustomed to my diminutive body. Then, on January 28th, the Challenger exploded. The first time this happened, I’d been too young to really understand. This time, I felt it. I was crushed by an overwhelming sense of loss. Angry that I couldn’t do anything to prevent it. Upset with myself—for trying to do something selfless and failing, I knew it wasn’t my fault. But I felt guilty all the same. It was a hard lesson: sometimes knowledge of the future hurts more than it helps.
There’s something strange about knowing too much when no one thinks you know anything at all. For the most part, I kept my head down. I made harmless predictions. Avoided anything that might scare people. And when I did steer things, I kept it subtle. But then… the ice cream truck showed up. It was one of those little summer staples. Tinny jingle looping on repeat.
Rolling down the street at five miles per hour.
All the neighborhood kids came running—sticky fingers, wrinkled dollar bills—laughing and screaming like the world was perfect. But I knew better.
I remembered the story. One of the younger boys had darted into the street that summer.
I’d been three the first time it happened. I remembered the scream, the blood and the way the ice cream truck never came back. How my dad rushed outside and shielded my eyes before I could see too much. I remembered the funeral.
Now sitting barefoot on the porch steps—three years old again, Flintstones Push-Pop in hand—I watched the same moment begin to unfold. The same boy, the red ball. His distracted mother, the same sprint into the road. I had seconds to react, I didn’t think. I just screamed his name.
Loud. Panicked. A toddler’s shriek, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. The boy froze. His mom turned and caught him just before he could continue towards the street.
The driver braked. Eugene missed the bumper by inches.

 The next few days were... weird. The boy’s mother thanked my mom.
 “He must’ve just sensed it,” she said, “Kids are intuitive like that.”
 But my mom started watching me differently too. Less with warmth. More with... unease.
 “How did you even know that boy’s name?” she asked me later.
 I shrugged and said I had played with him one of the days my dad had taken me to the park. But that moment didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like I’d stepped over a tripwire I hadn’t realized I was near.
 That night, across the dinner table, Grandma gave me a look—just for a second—that told me she knew. She still never said a word about it, or me. Just handed me an extra scoop of macaroni and cheese, which was and still is my favorite. But the way she looked at me when she did, it was like I’d passed some secret test.

 The next morning, I woke up early and sat by the window, watching the sun rise over a world I knew too well. Because that was the cost of knowledge, I could stop a tragedy...

But not the suspicion that followed. And if I wasn’t careful, I knew it was only a matter of time

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To know you twice Chapter 3.

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September 17, 2025

Chapter Three: Operation Crayon Nostradamus

                My first real test came in the form of Crayola and credibility. I’d relearned how to scribble, but now I had something to say. Using the only medium available to me—construction paper and crayons—I wrote a note in big, clumsy letters:

                “SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER WILL BLOW UP IN 1986. 7 ASTRONAUTS DIE.”

I showed it to my mom, She laughed.
                “What a big imagination you have!”

                Then I showed it to my dad.
                He studied the drawing for a long time, furrowing his brow at the big, blocky letters and the crude sketches.

                I still lacked the fine motor skills to make my body obey.
It didn’t help that I’d never had much artistic talent, and even as an adult, my handwriting had been… atrocious.

                Later, my dad took the drawing to show his mother. The two of them talked about it in hushed whispers. That Sunday, he took me to church—where my grandma led a prayer.
For me and I screamed inwardly, inside my head.

                Not because I was mad at her, but because I realized something: I was powerless. I could remember dates. Disasters. Warnings. But no one would take a toddler seriously. Not even if I spelled out words no two-year-old should know. Not even if I wrote out the truth in crayon. It freaked everyone out. They didn’t take it as a warning—they saw it as something wrong with me. Something unnatural. Worst of all, the explosion wasn’t even close yet. It was still a full year away. No one was going to remember some scribbled warning from a toddler twelve months from now.

                I had no credibility. No way to prove what I knew. No way to stop what was coming. I couldn’t save them. Not yet and that hit me harder than I ever expected.

                So, I pivoted, I started small. Predictions I could make that didn’t sound insane. I told my mom the neighbor’s power would go out. It did.

                When our new kitten was stolen, I immediately told my dad I’d seen the neighbor take her. I hadn’t, not really. But, I had remembered it took us a year to find out the truth the first time. By then, too much time had passed. The evidence was gone. My family didn’t want to fight over it. But this time, my dad went next door and told her that his son had seen her pick up the cat. An hour later, Binx was back in my arms. I cried, not just from the joy of having my kitten returned to me, but in reality It was the first real, meaningful change I’d made. It mattered more than I expected.  Because having Binx back in my life made me feel a little less lonely.

One day, I said Grandma would call at exactly 3:17 and She did.

                I said it would rain tomorrow—even though the sky was blue and the weatherman had promised sunshine. It rained.

                That’s when my grandma started watching me differently. She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t suspicious. Just… careful. Like she was tuning in. Studying me. Curious.

                Some days I swore she knew something. Or at least suspected.
She never said anything out loud, but there was something in the way her eyes lingered—like she was quietly cataloging everything I said.

                She hadn’t figured out the truth. Not really. I think she just sensed it. That something had changed in me. That I was different.

                Sometimes, I thought she saw me the way a person might look at a child prophet—wandering the house barefoot, making little predictions in between snack time and Sesame Street. And in her silence, I felt both comforted… and exposed.

                Then, one day, while she was babysitting me, I caught her in bedroom—standing in the soft glow of morning light, holding something in her hands. It was the drawing. My drawing. The one with the crude letters:
                “SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER WILL BLOW UP IN 1986. 7 ASTRONAUTS DIE.” She’d kept it. Folded, creased, but intact.

                She didn’t see me watching from the doorway. She just stared at it for a long time, her thumb brushing over the edge of the paper like she was trying to feel the truth in it. Then she quietly slid it back into small shoe box and shut the lid. I had recognized that shoebox, she had kept it for years, would put anything I would collect or make in that box, I had changed that too. Because I never made that note before.              

                That moment never came up in conversation. She never asked me about it. Never called it out. But after that, she started calling me by my full name more often and when she hugged me, it lingered. Just a little longer than before. I never knew for sure what she believed. But I think—deep down—she believed something had happened to me or was happening. In the other life, she was always quick to notice whenever anything had changed or had become different.

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To know you twice. Chapter 2

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September 3, 2025

                Chapter Two: Training Wheels and Time Bombs

                By the third week, I’d stopped trying to walk like a grown man and started shuffling like a toddler again. I had to. The cognitive dissonance was too much. Every time I stubbed my toe on the edge of the couch or tripped over my own feet, it felt like the universe reminding me I wasn’t in control—not anymore.

                But I had plans. Big ones.

                I knew what stocks to buy. What companies to bet on. What disasters to warn people about—if I could ever figure out how to speak like an adult without freaking everyone out.But those weren’t the things that haunted me the most.

                It was the people, the ones I’d lost. The ones who had hurt me. And the ones I still missed… even after everything. I found myself watching my dad through new eyes.
He was so young, so full of energy—not yet worn down by years of hard parenting, debt, two divorces, bad decisions, and my mother.

                My mother…

                She had become physically and verbally abusive toward the end of their marriage and only got worse after she won custody of me. There were things I’d blamed her for later in life. I hadn’t forgiven everything—but I understood more now. Age and knowledge had softened some of the sharp edges, even when part of me still wanted to cling to my anger.

                But they were still married now. The abuse hadn’t begun yet.
Maybe… maybe I could approach everything differently. I wasn’t a kid this time. Well—at least, not mentally.

One afternoon, I sat in a plastic chair in the backyard, pretending to play with a red dump truck, when it hit me like a lightning bolt:

                If I wanted to meet the people who mattered in my old life, I’d have to steer the world toward them… or steer myself. Could I still meet David, my best friend from high school?
He’d moved into my old neighborhood in 1996. But what if his parents took a different job this time? What if I didn’t go to the same school? Or worse—what if I did meet him again… and he wasn’t the same? Would I try to shape him? Turn him into the version I remembered? Would I even have the right? Was that even friendship anymore? I didn’t know.

                I’d never heard of anything like this happening before to anyone. As far as I knew, I was the first—maybe the only one. I still didn’t understand how or why this was happening to me.

                But I was also… depressed. I missed elements of my old life. I missed being an adult. I missed my adult friends, my adult freedoms and God did I miss technology.

                I had no idea how dating was going to work for me now. Then again, I had gone through my entire school career—elementary through high school—single. So maybe I wouldn’t try to change that part. All I knew was: I didn’t want to live forty more years just watching life happen.

                Not again. If I had to relive it all…I was going to make it count. Even if it meant going through braces again, puberty once more, even if it meant re-entering the chaos of adolescence with a mind that had already survived it once. Here I was: Reinserted back into my two-year-old body. Reliving it all—whether I wanted to or not.

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To know you twice:

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August 29, 2025

I recently got a notification I’ve been getting traffic on my blog, so let me bring it back to life! I’ve still be writing, working on a few projects, so here’s the first one.

This is a short story I started working on, inspired by a thought exercise I came across on Facebook. The question was:

“What would you do if you woke up tomorrow, and it was 1985—and all your memories of this time had been nothing but a dream?”

My first thought was, “I’d probably have some sort of existential crisis. I carry 42 years of life inside me, and if I suddenly woke up as a two-year-old again, I’d need some serious help readjusting.”

That led me down a rabbit hole: What if someone really did go to sleep one day, only to wake up in the body of their two-year-old self? What if they retained perfect recall—every detail, every mistake, every triumph from the life they’d already lived?

What would that even feel like? How would you handle it?

With those questions echoing in my head, I just started writing. I don’t know if anyone else will like it or not, but here it is—my story:

To Know You Twice.

To know you twice.

                It was just a normal day when it all happened. I was 45 years old, had just gotten home from the gym, and spent some time playing one of my favorite video games—Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Part 2. It’s based on the original Final Fantasy VII, which first came out in 1997.

                The remake felt deeply nostalgic. I’d heard plenty of people complain about how it diverges from the original—how much they hated that—but I found myself enjoying it. It wasn’t just replaying a familiar game; it was like discovering a whole new story hidden inside an old favorite.

                I remember falling asleep watching Netflix, and when I woke up, I screamed.

                Not because I was in pain—though my joints ached in ways I didn’t understand—but because the room was all wrong. The bed was different. And above me was the underside of a bunk bed, the kind my older brother used to sleep in when we were kids.

                The ceiling was textured, stuccoed like popcorn, with a brass light fixture I hadn’t seen in decades. The room felt off—filled with toys I didn’t recognize, plastic shapes dangling from the ceiling, spinning lazily in the warm sunlight coming through a window that didn’t belong to my current apartment.

                The silence was thick in that way only the past can be. No buzz of cell phones. No hum of air purifiers. Just the distant sound of someone humming and the sharp scent of baby powder.

                I tried to sit up, and that’s when I realized:

                My arms were short.

                My fingers were pudgy.

                And when I cried out in panic—because I did cry—it came out as a high-pitched, breathy wail.

                I scrambled off the bed, heart pounding, but my coordination was a mess. My brain fired commands with the precision of a soldier—but my toddler limbs flailed like I was drunk.

                Then the door creaked open, and a voice I hadn’t heard in over twenty years called out.

                “Sweetie? You’re up early!”

                My mom.

                Not the hollow, weathered woman who passed away seven years ago, her eyes tired and her smile gone. This was her—young, full of energy, smiling in a faded Care Bears t-shirt.

                She stepped into the room and scooped me up like I weighed nothing.

                I—forty-five-year-old me, trapped inside a two-year-old body—stared at her like I’d seen a ghost. Because I had.

                None of this was right. Nothing made sense. I still remembered my life. No, not just remembered—I could see it. Every detail. Every sound. Every moment. Crystal clear.

                I’ve always had a decent memory, but this was something else. This wasn’t normal recall—it was like I had developed photographic memory overnight. Not just a sharper mind, but perfect memory. Like hyperthymesia or whatever Sheldon Cooper had in The Big Bang Theory.


                Chapter 1: The First Week Was Hell

                 I could barely speak. It was like my brain hadn’t adjusted to my new body—or maybe my vocal cords just weren’t ready. I couldn’t walk straight either, even as my mind screamed at my legs to stop wobbling. I’d wake up crying from vivid dreams—paying bills, heartbreak, losing jobs, making love, burying friends. And every morning, I’d wake in this impossibly small body, feeling hopeless, with no clue how to escape it—or if escape was even possible.

                It took a full day to accept this wasn’t just some ultra-realistic dream. I was two years old again and the year was 1985.

                It’d be decades before smartphones, the internet, or streaming. I had no idea if things were truly happening again—or if I could change anything at all.

Could I heal? Could I avoid the traumas I’d already lived through once? Was this a second chance… or was I dead, reliving my memories?

                But no. That couldn’t be right.

                Because the moment I woke in my two-year-old body, I had already made changes—small ones, granted, but real. I was talking. Or at least, trying to. Whenever I attempted to speak like my adult self, it came out as high-pitched babble.

                I began using the toilet on my own, astonishing my parents.
They gushed over the fact I no longer needed a diaper, like I had magically potty-trained myself overnight. It was… embarrassing. I knew how to drive and do my own taxes, and yet here I was, being celebrated for pooping in a little plastic chair. I recognized how absurd it all was—but I also understood: this was the body of a toddler, and I had to work within its limits.

                I got frustrated constantly. My fingers wouldn’t cooperate. My balance was a joke.
But my mind—my mind was sharper than it had ever been.
Not only had I retained every memory, it was as if my brain had been tuned to a higher frequency.
                I remembered everything with terrifying clarity. And I had no idea how my parents would react if they discovered their toddler could read at a college level… or solve long division in his head. I wrestled constantly with whether or not to reveal how much I knew.
Would anyone believe me? Would they think I was a prodigy—or worse, possessed?

And if someone did believe me…Would they keep my secret? Or would I be exposed?

                Would I be taken away—tested, scanned, poked, locked in some sterile room while scientists tried to figure out how I worked? So, I stayed quiet, watching, thinking and Playing the part for now. Because I remembered everything.

                From Turtle Mania to the Challenger explosion. From Y2K and 9/11 to the rise of smartphones and the COVID pandemic. The sting of betrayal. The warmth of forgiveness. The thrill of redemption.

                I remembered all of it, every moment, every lesson. Every second chance. At first, I thought maybe it was a test. A second chance, divine reset. But then a darker thought crept in:
What if I lost it all again? Would I still meet the people who made me… me?
Would I screw it up? Some, I wouldn’t mind never meeting again. Others—I would miss dearly. Then there was my ex, Connie.

                Would I see her again? Would she want to see me again? For me, she had always been the one who got away. We had a stupid argument and broke up when I was 40.
It was one of those fights where, if we’d both just stopped being so damn stubborn, I truly believe we could have made it work. But that one, stupid fight… it ended everything. Still, I wondered: Would fate cross our paths again? Would she love me if she met me now—like this?

                Could I stop the pain I knew was coming… without screwing up the joy that came after? If I tried to steer events away from tragedy, would anything that followed still be real?
Could I rewalk the same path? Would I even want to? Would it be fake… or wrong? Was I just a ghost of the man I used to be, wandering through a childhood I’d already survived once?

                I had over four decades of knowledge, instinct, pain, and perspective in my head.
But I still had to drink from a sippy cup and I still had to take naps—where I wouldn’t sleep, just lie there quietly, thinking.

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Let me just let go, let me just stop trying, you don’t know what it’s like.

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September 26, 2018

Many complex trauma survivors walk away from their religious beliefs. For example, to believe in a good and loving God who allows suffering and heinous abuse to occur can feel like the ultimate betrayal. This is something needing considerable compassion. – https://themighty.com/2017/08/life-impacting-symptoms-of-complex-post-traumatic-stress-disorder-ptsd/

It’ strange for me think about how when I was a kid and first heard about God and Christianity I was fascinated, I fell in love with the faith and felt safe knowing there was this God up there watching over not just me, but everyone. I listened to the bible stories and the heroes who God chose, protected, saved and rewarded for their efforts and sacrifices. I wanted to be a champion of God like none other, I wanted to believe that everything had its purpose. Even as a kid, I was determined to discover my purpose, I grew up hearing how I was almost never even born, how my mother abandoned me when I was just a few months old, just to be saved by my father, who claimed God told him to go home, when he didn’t want to and only wanted to go to his mom’s to avoid having to put up with my mother, which would lead to yet another argument.
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So I believed there was a reason why I was such a freak, why I was so unwanted. I grew up with warts on my left hand, buck teeth, speech problems, I wasn’t particularly coordinated, good at sports, I had no talents that I knew of. My hair never did look right until I grew older and started spiking it. I suffered horrible abuse from my mother, was often teased and made fun my older brother, some of my family members and I faced bullies every day in school. More than anything I wanted to believe there was a purpose to it all, a reason behind it all. Because it’s what Christians often told me, that I would need to give my pain to God and he would deliver me from it. But he never did. Since I was six years old, I prayed to God every day, begging him to allow my mother to love me and treat me like a son. Of course, I’ve prayed for a variety of things and for people, I prayed to God to take away my warts, to fix my speech, my teeth and when I noticed my vision was beginning to deteriorate, I prayed for God to restore my vision. I’ve already had enough issues with my appearance and didn’t want to give the bullies any more ammunition against me. As I’ve said once in an earlier post, I’ve been called names and I’ve been called them all. I heard time and again of adults and people older than me how they were bullied too and how it’s so bad. But every year, bullying gets worse I know this from experience. I never got good advice or help in any way. The schools always say you should talk to a teacher, go the principle, or even your parents, doing so however only makes things 10 times worse. Kids are often ostracized by their peers it, called and viewed as a narc. Even worse, it’s never an easy thing to talk about when you’re a victim.
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I often would pray to God to move for me and those bullies who targeted me, I asked him to make them my friends, I prayed for my parents to get back together because I missed my dad, I prayed to be accepted, to feel loved. I prayed these things every day until I was thirteen years old. Then I changed, I began praying for God just to end it, to take my life, I didn’t care how. I just wanted to die. This I kept up, praying every day until I was fifteen. That’s when I finally gave on God. I gave up on Christians never wanting to listen to me, always saying the same diatribe over and over again, while I was very clearly crying out for help. I got tired of hearing Christians telling me, “God is trying to break you, he wants you to be more broken, so that he can heal you!” And a part of me always wondered,

“How much more broken do I have to be? I’m a kid, I shouldn’t have to deal with what I’ve been dealt with. I shouldn’t have heard my mother tell me that she wanted me to snap and hit her, so that she could pull some strings and have me locked up, just because she wanted to ruin my life. I shouldn’t have spent countless nights crying myself to sleep because I was so broken, so lonely and tired of feeling like I didn’t belong.”

Oh I would hear that it was God testing me, which I believed for years and after a while I began to wonder, why? What was he testing my faith for? I was a child, a kid, no kid should think the world would be better off if they died.

Other times they would blame Satan, telling me everything I was dealing with was the devil and he was trying to beat me down and I couldn’t help but wonder, why God wasn’t protecting me. I was a good kid, I always tried to be kind, generous, giving, supportive and forgiving. Granted I had a few small selfish moments as all kids do, but I was a pretty good kid. All I ever wanted was to be happy, to feel loved, wanted and needed. So, I started cutting myself, I started doing it just to give myself something else to focus on. But in truth, I was really just practicing to kill myself.

depression-im-fine

During this period of dark inflection, I adapted a mode of thinking, that maybe God was an absentee father, that he created us in a bit of a rush and once he was finished with his little science project he abandoned his creation. Thinking this, I began rebelling against God, believing if I could make him angry, make him hate me, he would finally stop and take notice, then maybe he would care. So I tore apart my bibles, tossing them in a fire. I began cussing like a sailor, mocking Christian teachings and beliefs. Then I began to study other religions and briefly practicing the other faiths I’ve read about. I became a Wiccan, for about a year, then I began reading about Pagan beliefs, I soon found myself reading more and more about philosophy and religions around the world, where I found something quite odd. They were all mostly the same, even Satanism. Compare any religion you want, don’t just go off what you think, or heard, but actually get their bible and read the tenants of other faiths, with an open mind and you’ll begin seeing similarities. Yet we build these factions, mock and make fun of, or even harass anyone who believes in something else, we wage war, kill one another over petty differences that don’t matter.

I have found many Christians (again not all) to be a very toxic people and I’m not saying anything against the bible or anything, granted I really don’t know what I myself believe in these days, but I do believe that the bible has some really worthwhile tenants and values. Most Christians however seem to suffer from old bigotry that pastors and leaders had used the bible to enforce their beliefs and force them on others. By this I mean when I read the bible, I read about a very loving and forgiving God, one who gave his only begotten son to die on a cross for our sins. It always felt wrong to me when I heard religious leaders speak out against homosexuals, or anyone in the LGBT community, even being an heterosexual man myself, but I know what it’s like to be an outcast, to be treated less of a human being just for being who you are. Then they always want to say “Well in the bible it says…”And I always counter with, the bible also says we shouldn’t pass judgment on others, or force our personal views, religious or otherwise on anyone else. Also the bible speaks out against gossiping. Worse is some the non-sensible things the bible also says.

Here are but a few.

Don’t have a variety of crops on the same field. (Leviticus 19:19)
Don’t wear clothes made of more than one fabric. (Leviticus 19:19)
Don’t cut your hair nor shave. (Leviticus 19:27)
Any person who curseth his mother or father, must be killed. (Leviticus 20:9)
If a priest’s daughter is a whore, she is to be burnt at the stake. (Leviticus 21:9)
People who have flat noses, or are blind or lame, cannot go to an altar of God. (Leviticus 21:17-18)
From the book of Deuteronomy:
If anyone, even your own family, suggests worshipping another God, kill them. (Deuteronomy 13:6-10)
Women are not allowed to wear the clothing of men and men are not allowed to wear the clothing of women (Deuteronomy 22:5)
From the New Testament:
Slaves must be submissive and obedient to their masters. (Ephesians 6:5)
Women must be submissive to their husbands. (1 Peter 3:1 and 3:5)
Women should not style or braid their hair or wear any adornments (jewelry) or fancy clothing. (I would also presume that wording to include the wearing of make-up and coloring of hair in that context. – 1 Peter 3:3, 1 Timothy 2:9)
Women should be generally submissive and should be quiet, never teach or hold any authority over men. They should just be silent. (1 Timothy 2:12)
Women must wear head coverings in any place of worship. (1 Corinthians 11:4-7)

When I attended Sunday school and I was brought up with the belief that God was supposed to be good, who wanted us to love on another. The bible in my opinion often contradicts itself, which often made me wonder, if someone didn’t add or tweak things here and there. Because the message I got from the Bible was how we should be compassionate to others, accept them for who they are, because they are created by God, love or hate them, they were created by the same God who made you, to argue against a person’s sexual preference or ideals is to say God has no idea what he’s doing.

self-hate-depression.jpg I know my struggle with faith and religion is in part because I suffer from c-ptsd, but it’s also because when I was crying out for help. The Christian church let me down, instead of trying to dive deeper and getting me help, I got lectured, prayed to, prayed out, given quotes from the bible, or reasons and excuses about why my life is the way it is. Others felt the need to compare their lives, and problems to my own and tell me they know how I feel, or want to tell me everything Jesus went through before he died and tell me to suck it up.

But I’m broken and have been broken for a very long time. I searched for God, I worshiped him, loved him despite how much my life was falling apart. It’s hard to believe in something when you’ve felt abandoned for so long. When you’ve prayed for small, simple miracle over and over again, just be denied that small amount of love. I wasn’t even supposed to be born, I was an unwanted child, an accident, an abortion survivor and for what, why?
More than anything I wish I was normal and wasn’t such a mess and I know if I ever come face to face with my mother again, I would like to look her in the eye and just say, “You can’t just make someone and throw them away, it’s not right.”

If you’re still reading this. I’m sorry for the downer of a post, which I’m still probably made some of you very angry at me. But, if you could do me a quick favor, and go over to my friend’s pateron and donate just a dollar to her goal of becoming a writer, I would greatly appreciate it and you’d be able to make someone’s day. She’s incredibly talented, a warm and loving person and in all honesty someone who’s kept me from giving up.

https://patreon.com/ARStuff?utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter&utm_campaign=tyshare2

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Warriors Invited To Raise Mental Health Awareness

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May 4, 2018

stoner on a rollercoaster's avatarStoner on a rollercoaster

I need help from all of you. Not for me only but for everyone who is dealing with a mental health problem.

Friends, in our part of world mental health problems are still something we feel too ashamed to talk about.

Either they are misunderstood as some sort of witchcraft or the person is conviniently labeled a psycho and abandoned, mostly emotionaly.

A loved one of mine is living with serious disorders.

I have no strenght and adequate knowlege (as i haven’t seen it myself yet) to write about it, i will hold back my own stream of words for a while until i know what i am talking about.

But i want to raise awareness on the subject as this is consuming our lives and pretty much this era.

People don’t even care about it until unless it doesn’t happen to a person very close or them and then…

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Health, fitness and commitment.

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June 26, 2014

Fitness Quotes and sayings      For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had the mindset that a healthy body, leads to a healthy mind. Nothing really clears the head better than a good, long and hard run and I love the feel of the wind against my face and in hair, my heart racing and the steady, controlled breathing of feeling my lungs really work that makes you feel so incredibly alive.

I can’t help but feel there’s something beautiful about running, a moment when neither foot is touching the ground and still being propelled forward that makes it feel like you’re flying and in that moment, it’s like reaching perfection.

This is me now, 6/16/14 After having to take it easy for about two months at the gym. I am not thrilled by committing this much. Like some of you out there, I'm still a little self-conscious of my body.

This is me now, 6/20/14 After having to take it easy for about two months at the gym. I am not thrilled by committing this much. Like some of you out there, I’m still a little self-conscious of my body.

I’m also a gym rat, I love hitting the weights, pushing myself and having this running competition where I’m always competing against the me of yesterday or last week. Upping my weight, whenever it feels like it’s becoming too easy and keeping a constant, ongoing record of my weight, sets, and amount of reps. I love feeling myself improving, becoming stronger, as well as seeing the results that follow. Plus, it gets even better when others begin noticing these changes and complement me on all the hard work, the hours of dedication, and sweat you’ve been putting into your body, becoming a healthier you.

So when my friend Rachel approached me and asked me if I would be willing to try out Nutrilite and write about it, I accepted. (Anything to improve my edge, boost my recovery, and growth) However the day I was supposed to begin on the protein and vitamin supplements I strained my foot from overtraining. (I have the tendency of pushing myself a little too hard sometimes, like trying to reach a personal goal of running 3 miles in 15 minutes) and before my injury I managed to reduce my time from 45 minutes to twenty five.

With my foot injured, I didn’t feel right about testing the nutrilite products, because anything I did while injured wouldn’t be a real review, or test.

But now, I’m back to full strength and ready to spend the next 30 days marking my any improvement I have with Nutrilite. Which is when I’ll be posting an update on my progress. Along, with photos…which I’m a bit hesitant on posting today, but I figured I have no real choice, and I figured posting my progress would only add to my motivation, making me less incline to cheat on my diet, or to slack off while putting my work in at the gym.

As you can see by the pictures provided., I’m not a meathead or a model by any means, I have about an average/athletic body type, and this will probably be the only time I do this.

 So today, for my personal fitness test for 6/20/14, results were. (I do each exercise for one minute, with a minute to rest in-between each workout)

 

88773-Motivational+Fitness+Quotes

Switch Kicks:  94 

Power Jacks:  56

Power Knees:  94

Power Jumps: 40

Globe Jumps: 9

Suicide Jumps: 16

Push up Jacks:  30

Low Plank Oblique’s: 45

 

I don't think I'm in bad shape, but there's still some room for improvement.

I don’t think I’m in bad shape, but there’s still some room for improvement.

 

 

Summery Weight lifting current weight.

Dumbbell chest press 55 lbs

Shoulder press 45 lbs

Pull-ups-30
T-bar Row-70 lbs.

Dumbbell curls -45 lbs

Leg squat 285 lbs

 

Included with my nutrilite goodie bag, were two energy drinks, which I honestly had no intentions on actually using, because I hate energy drinks. I’ve tried several, but had very little success in them working as advertised and I never did like the bittersweet aftertaste. However, as luck would it, I got caught up in a book and didn’t end up falling asleep until around 4am, and I had to get up at 8am for work. By morning, I was dragging and would have probably sold my sold for another hour of oh so precious sleep. But I looked over saw the root-beer energy drink on my counter and figured I’d give it a try.

So I popped the tab and wondered what it would really taste like, since in my experience very little few products ever taste as they are advertised, but was pleasantly surprised by the all too familiar taste of root-beer on my tongue, that tasted like root-beer any kind of after taste that comes with most energy drinks, (again in my experience) Plus it gave the energy I needed to get myself through the work day, as well with enough to get me through my workout at the gym later that day, I experienced no crash, headaches, or any ill effects.

If you’re interested in trying Nutilite along with me with me,

You can order directly from.

www.amway.com/rdpenny

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